bs  Me 


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N ew  "Yoik.,!)  . & J.  S a dlier  & C9 


THE  LIFE 


OF 

JOHN  BANIM, 

Insjr  ItoirHisi, 

AUTHOR  OF  “DAMON  AND  PYTHIAS,”  &C.,  AND  ONE  OF  THE  WRITERS  OF 
“TALES  BY  THE  O’HARA  FAMILY.” 

WITH 

EXTRACTS  FROM  HIS  CORRESPONDENCE, 

GENERAL  AND  LITERARY. 


BY 

PATRICK  JOSEPH  MURRAY. 


AMO, 


SELECTIONS  FKOM  HIS 

PR 405  7 
BX.H8 

NEW  YOR 
D.  & J.  SADLIER  & CO.,  31  B 

MONTREAL : 


COR.  NOTRE  DAME  AND  ST.  FRANCIS  XAYIER  STS. 


50!;' 

CHESTNUT 


1 86  9. 

f - M 


HH 


LBRARf 

MASS, 


Stereotyped  by  VINCENT  DILL, 

‘25  & 27  New  Chambers  St.,  N.  Y. 


TO 

RICHARD  ARMSTRONG,  Esq.,  Q.  C., 


IN  MEMORY  OF 

HAPPY  BAYS  AND  PLEASANT  NIGHTS, 

THIS  MEMORIAL  OF  JOHN  BANIM  IS  DEDICATED, 


BY, 

ONCE  HIS  PUPIL,  AND  FOR  EVER  HIS  FRIEND, 


PATRICK  JOSEPH  MURRAY. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


CHAPTER  I. 

INTRODUCTION — BIRTH — SCHOOL  DAYS — YOUTH — FIRST  LOVE. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  lives  of  literary  men  in 
England  are,  in  general,  devoid  of  incidents  either  in- 
teresting or  exciting,  and  yet,  in  all  the  long  catalogue 
of  human  joys  and  sorrows,  of  combats  against  the 
world,  and  of  triumphs  over  difficulties  almost  insur- 
mountable, of  instances  where  the  indomitable  will  has 
raised  its  possessor  to  the  enjoyment  of  every  object 
sought,  and  to  the  full  fruition  of  every  hope  long 
cherished,  where  can  such  glorious  examples  be  found 
as  in  the  pages  of  literary  biography?  It  is  true 
that  many  a noble  intellect  has  been  shattered  in  the 
pursuit  of  literary  fame  ; it  is  true  that  ghastly  forms 
of  martyred  genius  flit  across  the  scene,  and  that,  from 
the  lowest  depths  of  the  deep  hearts  of  Poets,  the  cry 
of  gnawing  hunger,  and  the  wail  of  helpless,  hopeless 
sorrow  arises,  with  an  anguish  more  frightful  than  that 
of  Philoctetes,  more  awful  than  that  of  Lear.  Truly 


6 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


literature  lias  had  its  martyrs — Nash,  the  creature  of 
genius,  of  famine,  and  despair,  tells  us  : “I  sat  up  late 
and  rose  early,  contended  with  the  cold  and  conversed 
with  scarcity,  and  all  my  labors  turned  to  loss— 

‘ Why  is?t  damnation  to  despair  and  die 
When  life  is  my  true  happiness7  disease? 7 77 

Churchyard,  who  wore  out  life  on  the  food  and  in 
the  rags  of  a beggar,  had  written  on  his  grave,  “ Poverty 
and  Poetry  his  tomb  doth  enclose.”  Stowe,  after  the 
labor  of  forty-five  years,  was  a strolling  mendicant 
through  the  country  of  whose  antiquities  he  had  been 
the  learned  chronicler.  Otway,  when  he  had  endured 
all  the  woes  of  want,  was  choked  by  the  hungry  eager- 
ness with  which  he  tried  to  devour  a loaf,  the  price  of 
wThich  he  had  begged.  The  saddest  picture  of  all,  in 
the  martyrology  of  genius,  is  Chatterton — 

“ the  marvellous  boy  ; 

The  sleepless  soul  that  perish’d  in  his  pride  77 — 
writing  home  to  his  mother  those  brave  letters  in  which 
he  promises  to  become  great  and  famous,  because,  “ by 
abstinence  and  perseverance,  a man  may  accomplish 
whatever  he  pleases  ; ” and  then,  after  enduring  days 
of  starvation,  and  refusing  a dinner  from  his  landlady, 
the  poor  staymaker,  he  dies  by  his  own  hand  of  poison, 
and  is  buried  amongst  the  rank  graves  of  beggars  in 
Shoe-lane  workhouse.  Literary  biography  has  its  kind 
good  hearts  too,  doing  deeds  that  shine  in  the  face 
of  heaven — its  “ noble  silent  men,  scattered  here  and 
there  ; silently  thinking ; silently  working ; whom  no 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


7 


morning  newspaper  makes  mention  of.”  Look  at 
Goldsmith  giving  to  the  relief  of  want,  whilst  himself 
existing  on  pennies.  Look  at  Samuel  Johnson  crowd- 
ing his  house  with  the  needy.  Look  at  him  walking 
all  night  around  St.  James’s  Square,  because  otherwise 
his  companion,  Richard  Savage,  would  sleep  upon  a 
cobbler’s  bulk.  Look  again,  he  is  returning  home  late 
at  night,  his  dim  eyes  serve  him  but  poorly  to  see  his 
way,  and  in  his  rolling,  shambling  walk,  he  stumbles 
over  some  object  lying  on  the  footpath  ; he  stoops — it 
is  a woman,  half  dead  with  cold,  disease,  and  want.  He 
takes  her  on  his  back,  carries  her  to  his  lodgings,  places 
her  in  his  own  bed,  sends  for  a physician,  and  finding 
that  she  is  a poor  fallen  outcast,  prays,  and  teaches 
her  to  pray,  and  upon  her  recovery  places  her  where 
poverty  cannot  again  drive  her  from  virtue.  When 
Harte  dined  with  Cave,  meat  was  taken  behind  a screen 
placed  at  the  end  of  the  room  ; and  there  sat  Johnson, 
too  ragged  and  too  proud  to  appear  at  table.  But  he 
heard  them  praise  his  Life  of  Savage — and  the  same 
man,  so  poor  and  so  proud,  some  few  years  afterwards 
flung  back  to  the  clever  puppy  Chesterfield  his  praises 
of  the  Dictionary.  Well  has  Thomas  Carlyle  written, 
“ Old  Samuel  Johnson,  the  greatest  soul  in  England  in 
his  day — Corsica  Boswell  flaunted  at  public  shows  with 
printed  ribbons  round  his  hat ; but  the  great  old  Samuel 
stayed  at  home.  The  world- wide  soul  wrapt  up  in  its 
thoughts,  in  its  sorrows,  what  could  paradings  and 
ribbons  in  the  hat  do  for  it?”  Truly  nothing.  Eor  it, 


8 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


lionor  and  rectitude  did  all.  These  are  the  facts  and 
incidents  which  gave  to  literary  biography  its  charms. 

Think  of  Kirke  White,  poor  murdered  child  of  song 
and  sorrow ; of  John  Keats,  by  his  solitary  hearth,  a 
gloom-rapt  soul,  to  whom 

(i  The  bare  heath  of  life  presents  no  bloom  ; ” 

of  Gerald  Griffin,  so  worn  and  wan  before  his  time, 
starving  by  day,  and  awakened  at  night  by  the  dread 
pulsation  of  his  throbbing  heart,  to  sigh  lest  day  and 
its  toil  had  come  once  more  ; and,  most  woful  of  all, 
Sir  Walter  and  Southey — so  bright  in  intellect,  and  so 
dauntless  in  labor  once,  but  so  crushed  and  broken 
at  the  close  of  life — come  before  us,  all  teaching  great 
truths  in  the  moral  of  their  lives,  and  proving,  too, 
that  old  Burton  judged  rightly  when,  in  “ The  Anatomy 
of  Melancholy,”  he  quaintly  wrote,  that  the  Destinies 
of  old  “ put  poverty  upon  Mercury  as  a punishment ; 
since  when,  poetry  and  beggary  are  Gemini,  twin-born 
brats,  inseparable  companions.  Mercury  can  help  them 
to  knowledge,  but  not  to  money.” 

It  is  not  by  reason  alone  of  its  fascinating  details 
that  literary  biography  should  be  prized  and  estimated. 
The  author,  more  than  any  other  man,  rises  by  his  own 
merits,  or  sinks  through  his  own  faults.  Even  in  the 
days  when  the  lot  of  the  man  of  genius  was,  but  too 
often, 

“ Toil,  envy,  want,  the  Patron,  and  the  jail,” 
the  want  and  the  jail  were  frequently  attributable  to 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


9 


his  own  misconduct ; but,  in  this  our  age,  when  from 
literature  have  sprung  the  glories  of  the  Church,  the 
Bench,  the  Senate,  and  the  Bar,  genius  need  no  longer 
dress  in  rags,  or  live  in  poverty — -its  Patron  is  the 
Public  ; and  for  him  who  is  entering  on  the  journey 
of  life,  the  best  guide  will  be  the  biography  of  some 
literary  man  of  the  time.  He  will  there  discover  how, 
by  honorable  conduct  and  by  persevering  application, 
all  the  honors  of  the  kingdom  can  be  obtained — and 
how,  on  the  other  hand,  the  brightest  gifts  of  genius 
are  useless,  if  desecrated  by  idleness  or  by  misap- 
plication. He  will  learn,  also,  to  doubt  the  truth  of 
one  who  has  written  : 

“ Let  no  man  be  bred  to  literature  alone,  for,  as  has  been  far 
less  truly  said  of  another  occupation,  it  will  not  be  bread  to 
him.  Fallacious  hopes,  bitter  disappointments,  uncertain  rewards 
vile  impositions,  and  censure  and  slander  from  the  oppressors, 
are  their  lot,  as  sure  as  ever  they  put  pen  to  paper  for  publication, 
or  risk  their  peace  of  mind  on  the  black,  black  sea  of  printers7  ink. 
With  a fortune  to  sustain,  or  a profession  to  stand  by,  it  may  still 
be  bad  enough ; but  without  one  or  the  other  it  is  as  foolish  a3 
alchemy,  as  desperate  as  suicide.77  * 

The  facts  show  to  the  reader  how  interesting  and 
how  useful  a study  literary  biography  becomes  when 
rightly  pursued  ; and  we  have  endeavored  to  render 
our  Biography  of  John  Banim  as  faithful  a memoir  as 
facts  could  make  it,  and  to  give  it,  through  his  own 
letters,  somewhat  the  character  of  an  autobiography. 

There  is  a charm  about  biography  which  is  immedi- 

* Jerdan’s  Autobiography,  Vol  I.  p.  39. 


10 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


ately  felt  and  acknowledged  by  all ; but  autobiography 
ls  still  more  attractive,  being  the  record  of  the  heart, 
the  feeling  and  the  actions  of  him  who  is  the  subject 
of  his  own  pen. 

Great  old  Samuel  J ohnson  said,  that  if  any  man  were 
to  note  down  the  facts  of  his  daily  existence,  the  diary 
should  prove  interesting,  and  for  our  parts  we  believe, 
most  firmly,  that  he  was  right ; we  even  consider  that 
an  indifferently  executed  autobiography  is  more  inter- 
esting than  an ' ordinarily  compiled  biography.  Who 
would  not  rather  read  Horace’s  own  account  of  his 
school  days,  of  his  boyhood,  and  of  his  every-day  life, 
than  the  most  erudite  and  accurate  biographical  sketch 
composed  by  his  annotators  ? When  he  writes  of  him- 
self he  is  before  us,  as  in  the  years  when  he,  the  freed- 
man’s  son,  was  brought  to  Rome  by  a father,  noble  in 
the  nobility  of  manhood,  and  was  sent  to  learn  all  that 
the  Roman  Knight  could  know.  We  see  him  as  when 
he  went  attended  by  slaves,  and  dressed  as  if  his  estate 
had  been  princely.  When  he  relates  the  moral  lessons 
given  him  by  his  father,  and  adds,  to  the  noble  born 
Mecsenas — 

“ Nil  me  poeniteat  sanum  patris  hujus  ”■ — 
the  old  man  is  present  before  us,  living,  breathing,  and 
respected.  When  he  describes  his  home  life,  that  exqui- 
site picture  of  Epicurean — real  Epicurean — existence, 
we  see  him  plainly,  jogging  upon  the  bob-tailed  mule, 
or  inquiring  the  price  of  bread  and  herbs,  or  loitering 
in  the  Circus,  or  lounging  in  the  Forum,  or  listening  to 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


11 


the  fortune-tellers  ; and  we  return  with  him  at  night  to 
the  supper  of  onions,  pulse,  and  pancakes,  served  by 
the  three  slaves ; and  observing  the  two  cups,  and 
the  tumbler,  upon  the  white  stone  slab,  we  think  him 
a Eoman  “ right  gay  fellow,”  and  grasping  his  hand,  in 
fancy,  we  cry,  in  his  own  line — 

“Nil  ego  contulerim  jucundo  sanus  amico 
and  we  hear  him  say,  as  his  eyes  sparkle, 

“ Hie  me  consolor  victurum  suavitis,  ac  si 
Quaestor  avus,  pater  atque  meus,  patruusque  fuisset.” 

And  turn  now  to  Montaigne.  Who  could  tell,  as  he 
himself  tells,  the  history  of  his  early  life  ? Who  could 
place  so  well  before  us  his  father,  Pierre  Eyquem, 
Feuyer , the  brave  and  loyal  soldier  who  had  seen  service 
beyond  the  mountains  ; who  mixed  his  language  with 
“illustrations  out  of  modern  authors,  especially  Span- 
ish ? ” The  man  is  before  us,  carrying  the  canes  loaded 
with  lead,  and  with  them  exercising  his  arms  for  throw- 
ing the  stone.  We  see  him  walking  with  leaden-soled 
shoes,  that  he  might  be  afterwards  the  lighter  for  leap- 
ing and  running.  The  old  man  and  his  son  are  before 
us,  when  Michael  writes  : “ Of  his  vaulting  he  has  left 
little  miracles  behind  him  ; and  I have  seen  him,  when 
past  three-score,  laugh  at  our  agilities,  throw  himself 
in  his  furred  gown  into  the  saddle,  make  the  tour  of 
a table  upon  his  thumbs,  and  scarce  ever  mount  the 
stairs,  up  to  his  chamber,  without  taking  three  or  four 
steps  at  a time.” 

Who  could  tell  as  well  as  Montaigne  the  plan  of 


12 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


education  marked  out  for  him  by  his  father  ; his  being, 
before  he  could  articulate,  committed  to  the  care  of  a 
German,  who  was  ignorant  of  French,  but  who  spoke 
Latin  fluently ; the  scheme  of  education  working  so 
well,  that  George  Buchanan — “ that  great  Scotch  poet,” 
who  was  his  tutor  in  the  College  of  Guienne,  where 
Michael  played  the  chief  parts  in  the  Latin  tragedies  of 
Buchanan,  Guerente,  and  Muret — told  him  that  he  must 
write  a treatise  upon  Education,  founded  on  the  plan 
of  that  carried  out  by  Montaigne’s  father,  Buchanan 
being  then  tutor  to  that  Count  de  Brissac,  wTho  after- 
wards proved  so  valiant  and  so  brave  a gentleman? 
Who  but  Montaigne  could  lead  us  onward,  through  all 
his  charming,  babbling  book,  where  he,  his  habits,  his 
errors,  and  fine,  noble,  too  truthful  disposition  steal  out 
in  every  page,  till  we  agree  in  his  opinion,  “ Je  n’ay  pas 
plus  faict  mon  livre,  que  mon  livre  m’a  faict, — livre  con- 
substantiel  a son  autheur  ? ” Who  but  Bobert  Southey 
could  tell  us  so  charmingly  of  his  own  early  life,  as  in 
the  first  pages  of  his  Memoir  we  read  from  his  own 
pen?  Boswell’s  inimitable  work,  with  all  its  life-like 
sketches,  is  not  so  interesting  as  the  few  personal  in- 
cidents stated  by  Johnson  himself.  Who  does  not  wish 
nat  Sydney  Smith  had  continued  that  preface  to  his 
works,  which  he  begins  with  the  words,  “ When  I first 
went  into  the  Church,  I had  a living  in  the  middle  of 
Salisbury  Plain  ? ” In  these  books,  the  writers  are  our 
friends  ; their  minds,  their  actions,  their  hopes  and  fears 
are  before  us  ; and  when  the  work  is  biography,  we  like 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


13 


it  better  the  nearer  it  approaches  to  autobiography,  by 
the  insertion  of  the  private  letters  of  him  who  forms 
the  subject.  Thus  Eobert  Southey  thought,  when  about 
to  edit  the  poems,  and  to  compose  a memoir,  of  Kirke 
White,  he  wrote  to  Neville  White  : “ The  most  valua- 
ble materials  which  could  be  entrusted  to  me  would  be 
his  letters, — the  more  that  could  be  said  of  him  in  his 
own  words  the  better.”  Letters  give  the  chief  charm 
to  the  biography  of  Byron,  and  of  Scott.  In  the  Son- 
nets of  Shakespeare,  those  assumed  to  refer  to  himself 
are  the  most  admired  ; and  it  has  been  well  observed 
of  Petrarch,  that  “his  correspondence  and  verses  to- 
gether afford  the  progressive  interest  of  a narrative  in 
which  the  poet  is  always  identified  with  the  man.” 

It  is  true  that  genius  has  often  been  its  own  doom- 
ster.  Debauchery  and  improvidence  have,  alas ! been 
lures  to  lead  the  grandest  souls  to  ruin  ; and  fancies 
which  in  the  dawn  of  fame  blazed  bright  in  beauty, 
have  set  in  black  clouds  of  gross  and  earthly  passion. 
But  there  are  other  sufferers  who  have  perished  in  the 
contest  with  the  world,  and  who,  in  mental  anguish  and 
in  bodily  pain,  attempted  to  accomplish  the  great  deeds 
of  which  in  youth  they  dreamed  those  dreams  that  come 
only  in  the  days  when — 

“All  we  met  was  fair  and  good, 

And  all  was  good  that  time  could  bring 
And  all  the  secret  of  the  spring 
Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood/’ 

These  are  the  real  martyrs  of  genius  who,  commencing 


14 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


]ife  in  strength  and  hope,  with  that  hope  whose  rosy 
light  tints  every  rugged  pathway  in  the  far-off  steeps 
that  must  be  passed  ere  the  gorgeous  dream-land  of 
golden  fame  can  be  reached — commencing  life,  too,  with 
that  power  which  ever  dwells  in  the  deep  heart  of 
youth,  making  to-day  but  the  training  ground  for  a 
future,  when,  amongst  the  clashing  of  minds,  in  the 
jarring  struggle  with  the  world,  triumph  shall  crown 
him  a victor — hope  on  for  ever. 

Such  a man  as  this  was  John  Banim  : a bright-hearted, 
true-souled  Irishman.  He  began  his  way  of  toil  in 
trusting  daring  ; side  by  side  with  a loving,  unchanging 
wife,  he  would  try  the  power  of  his  mind,  the  readiness 
of  his  intellect,  and  the  versatility  of  his  genius  ; and 
had  Omniscient  Wisdom  spared  him  health,  as  fully 
as  it  bestowed  upon  him  energy  of  soul  and  ability  of 
mind,  he  would  have  been  the  Scott  of  Ireland.  But 
all  his  life  long  he  labored  amidst  the  frowns  of  Fortune 
or  the  tortures  of  disease.  He  wrote  in  the  intervals 
of  anguish,  frequently  too  during  its . paroxysms,  and 
closed  his  life  a mind-wreck,  drifting  away  upon  the 
lone  black  sea  of  pain  and  sorrow.  But  herein  it  is 
that  his  life  deserves  a record : its  home  love,  its 
beautiful  affection  for  her  whom  the  Germans  so 
thoughtfully  call  “ the  house-mother  : ” his  never-flag- 
ging hope  ; his  patient  endurance  ; his  triumphs  ; his 
efforts  after  excellence,  form  many  important  teachings 
for  him  who  would  enter  the  world  a candidate  for  liter- 
ary fame. 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


15 


Banim  was  in  heart  and  soul  a man  ; and  in  toiling 
onward  in  his  self-chosen  profession,  amidst  all  his  griefs 
was  ever  a hero,  disdaining  to  be,  while  the  soul  of  a 
man  dwelt  in  manhood’s  frame — 

“ An  infant  crying  in  the  night : 

An  infant  crying  for  the  light 
And  with  no  language  but  a cry.” 

“Work”  was  his  motto,  and  of  the  great  psalm  of  life 
he  made  the  anthem, 

Laborare  Est  Orare. 

Like  Southey,  he  was  always  hoping,  and  always 
working  ; and  the  glory  of  his  toil  was  not  in  the  pres- 
ent work,  but  in  that  which  should  be  accomplished  in 
future  times.  Like  Scott,  he  loved  the  humorous  side 
of  things,  and  when  not  in  heroics  was  most  at  ease. 
His  letters  are  more  hearty  than  those  of  Moore  ; and 
the  self-reliant  independence  of  one  who  would  be  suc- 
cessful by  his  own  efforts,  is  plain  and  evident  in  all 
his  communications  with  the  household  at  home.  From 
the  first  letter  to  the  last,  now  before  us,  these  feelings 
are  fully  expressed ; and  much  as  we  have  read,  much 
as  we  know,  of  literary  men  and  their  habits,  we  believe 
that  of  those  who  are  the  supports  of  the  periodical 
Press,  there  is  no  man  whom  a Christian,  a gentleman, 
or  a brother  litterateur  would  prefer  to  have  called  friend, 
before  John  Banim. 

In  the  year  1792  there  resided  in  the  city  of  Kilkenny 
a young,  hard-working  man,  named  Michael  Banim. 


16 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


A natural  love  of  out-door  exercise  and  field  sports  had 
sprung  up  in  his  breast,  and  had  been  strengthened  by 
all  the  influences  that  extend  to  young  men  who  reside 
in  a county,  the  sporting  habits  of  whose  gentry  are 
even  less  remarkable  than  those  exhibited  by  the  mem- 
bers of  the  once  famous  Kilkenny  Hunt.  Michael  Banim 
united  pleasure  with  business,  pushing  his  way  in  the 
world  as  a trader  in  all  the  necessaries  of  a sportsman’s 
and  angler’s  outfit, — dealing  in  everything,  from  a fowl- 
ing-piece of  John  Rigby’s  to  one  of  Martin  Kelley’s 
fishing-rods.  He  was  a farmer  too,  and  kept  a pair  of 
well-bred  horses. 

From  the  days  when  Venator,  in  “The  Complete 
Angler/’  kissed  the  pretty  milkmaid  who  sang  so  sweetly 
(one  could  wish,  with  Sir  Thomas  Overbury,  “ that  she 
may  die  in  the  spring,  and,  being  dead,  ma}^  have  good 
store  of  flowers  stuck  round  about  her  winding-sheet  ”), 
and  for  which  the  grave  Piscator  reproves  him  with  a 
“ Come,  scholar ! let  Maudlin  alone  : do  not  you  offer 
to  spoil  her  voice,”  to  the  time  when  young  Squire 
Thornhill  stole  away  the  heart  of  Olivia  Primrose — 
sportsmen  have  been  the  victims  of  bright  eyes,  and 
have  made  fond  husbands  too,  notwithstanding  the  cal- 
umny of  the  jilted  lover  in  Locksley  Hall,  who  declares 
of  his  sporting  rival  : — 

“ He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have  spent  its  novel 
force, 

Something  better  than  his  dog,  a little  dearer  than  his  horse.” 

And  so  Michael  Banim  fell  beneath  the  power  of  the 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


17 


god  who  “ rules  the  court,  the  camp,  the  grove,”  and 
was  married,  in  the  year  1792,  to  Joannah  Carroll. 

She  was  of  honest,  respectable  parentage,  and  of  her 
character  and  personal  appearance  her  eldest  son, 
Michael,  has  given,  in  describing  Eose  Brady,  the 
heroine  of  “ The  Ghost  Hunter  and  His  Family,”  the 
following  sketch  : — • 

“ She  could  not  be  called  beautiful,  for  her  nose  was 
neither  Eoman  nor  Grecian  ; nay,  as  we  wish  to  speak 
candidly  in  all  cases,  we  must  confess  that  it  was  rather 
broad  at  the  base,  and  perhaps  about  the  sixteenth  of 
an  inch  too  wide.  But  then  her  lips  were  cherry-red, 
and  beautifully  formed ; her  forehead  was  as  smooth 
as  polished  ivory  ; her  cheeks  were  round  and  peachy, 
and,  in  color,  ‘like  to  the  Catherine  pear,  the  side 
that’s  next  the  sun  ; ’ her  chin  was  full,  marbly,  and  a 
little  dimpled ; and  as  for  teeth,  Eose  might  be  excused 
for  unnecessarily  displaying  them,  had  she  had  the 
vanity  to  do  so.  The  eye  is  the  gem  of  the  counte- 
nance ; and  Eose  could  boast  two  dark  hazel  ones, 
beaming  with  good-nature  or  with  affection,  full  of 
sense  and  intellect,  and  sometimes  shooting  forth  a sly 
humor.  She  was  not  tall,  but  her  figure  was  nicely 
moulded.  Eichardson,  while  enumerating  the  perfec- 
tions of  his  Clarissa,  (poor,  poor  Clarissa!)  relates  that 
her  attire  always  bore  the  gloss  of  newness.  We  claim 
the  same  praise  for  our  humble  little  heroine,  and  we 
add  that  whatever  she  wore  seemed  of  the  exact  color, 
kind,  and  pattern,  which  became  her  best. 


18 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


“She  was  as  cheerfully  industrious  as  a bee  in  the 
garden.  Almost  from  her  childhood  she  had  been 
accustomed  to  earn  something  for  herself ; and  by 
assiduity  and  prudence  in  her  occupations,  she  was 
enabled  not  only  to  contribute  to  the  comforts  of  the 
family,  but  to  e put  money  in  her  purse  ; * and  that 
purse,  a capacious  one  of  gold-flowered  silk/  lay  in  a 
deep  corner  of  the  chest  in  her  bedroom,  and  into  it 
guinea  after  guinea  found  their  way,  until  Eose  had 
laid  up  her  own  dower.” 

She  possessed  a mind  of  very  superior  order,  and  a 
store  of  good  sense,  and  womanly,  wifely  patience  ; and 
these,  with  health  and  trust  in  Heaven,  were  her  only 
marriage  portion. 

Michael  Banim  was  a man  of  hasty  temper,  but  with 
a fund  of  deep  and  genuine  feeling  at  heart  ; and  here 
his  wife’s  gentle  affection  was  the  quiet  soother  of  all 
care  ; and  soon  he  was  a man  well  to  do  in  the  world, 
respected  by  his  superiors  in  rank,  and — best  test  of  all 
of  one’s  real  worth — respected  by  his  neighbors  and  by 
his  equals. 

In  August,  1796,  there  was  born  to  him  a son  named 
Michael,  who  is  still  living,  and  whom,  in  the  course  of 
this  biography,  we  shall  have  frequent  occasion  to  men- 
tion. His  second  son,  John  Banim,  was  born  on  the 
3d  day  of  April,  1798. 

John  grew  up  a plain-looking  child,  with  great  staring 
eyes ; and  his  only  characteristic  was  a kind,  loving 
disposition,  which  endeared  him  to  all  the  humble 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM.  19 

household.  He  was  petted  by  his  mother,  and  her  kind- 
ness, in  conjunction  with  his  own  love  of  those  about 
him,  rendered  his  early  years  but  one  united  train  of 
childish  joys. 

His  mother,  as  we  have  stated,  petted,  and  as  a matter 
of  course,  indulged  him  : the  best  place  at  table,  and 
the  nicest  dainties  of  the  dinner,  even  in  mere  child- 
hood, were  his  ; and  although  Mrs.  Banim  did  not  spoil 
her  boy  so  excessively  as  did  Quick  the  actor  his  little 
girl,  who,  because  she  wished  to  dabble  her  feet  in  the 
gravy  of  a saddle  of  mutton,  was  permitted  to  sit  astride 
upon  the  joint,  yet  little  John  Banim  merely  escaped 
the  socially  atrocious  character  of  an  enfant  terrible . 

His  father  was  a man  of  some  information,  for  his 
position  and  time  ; his  mother  was  a woman  of  good 
mental  powers,  increased  and  strengthened  by  a love 
for  reading.  Thus  both  the  parents  of  the  future  nov- 
elist were  capable  of  understanding  and  appreciating 
the  advantages  of  education,  and  in  his  fourth  year 
their  son  J ohn  was  sent  to  a school  kept  by  Mrs.  Alice 
Moore;  where  it  was  possible  to  learn  the  “Horn  'Boo'kf 
and  some  fair  share  of  the  rudiments  of  reading,  pro- 
vided the  words  were  not  too  long,  and  were  those  in 
ordinary  use. 

Here  however,  John  did  not  continue  a scholar.  Like 
the  more  famous  Academy  and  Lyceum,  Alice  Moore’s 
school  was  held  upon  the  ground-floor ; and  this  circum- 
stance so  much  excited  the  indignation  of  little  Banim, 
that  he  rushed  to  his  home  from  the  cottage  seminary. 


20 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


after  an  hour’s  tuition,  declaring  to  his  mother  that  he 
could  not  stay  in  a school  where  “ there  wasn’t  a bit  of 
paper  on  the  walls,  or  a step  of  stairs  in  the  house.” 
Mrs.  Banim  thought  this  outburst  but  the  childish  in- 
dication of  an  aspiring  mind,  and  did  not  force  her  little 
boy  to  return,  but  sent  him  to  the  school  of  a Miss 
Lamb,  who  appears  to  have  taught  him  the  very  merest 
branches  of  learning.  She  was,  like  many  other  school- 
mistresses— women  who  are  supported  by  parents  simply 
because  they  act  as  a species  of  upper  nurses,  keeping 
the  children  from  harm  and  home — good-humored,  quiet, 
and  fat.  With  Miss  Lamb,  John  remained  until  he 
could,  as  she  used  afterwards  to  boast,  “ turn  the 
primer.” 

In  his  fifth  year  he  was  removed  from  Miss  Lamb’s 
to  a school  at  that  period  well  known  in  Kilkenny  and 
its  vicinity  as  “ The  English  Academy,  Kilkenny.”  Its 
master,  Mr.  George  Charles  Buchanan,  was  an  oddity  ; 
and  if  ever  man  lived  for  whom  the  apology  offered  by 
Sir  Walter  for  one  of  his  characters  should  be  freely 
admitted  as  a plea  in  bar  of  all  deprecation,  George 
Charles  Buchanan  could  claim  its  fullest  benefit,  for 
truly  “the  man  was  mortal,  and  was  born  a school- 
master.” 

Banim  was,  as  we  have  observed,  adoringly  fond  of 
his  mother.  With  a child’s  love  he  ever  feared  to  lose 
her,  and  about  the  period  of  his  entrance  into  Mr. 
Buchanan’s  school  his  chief  grief  was  lest  a notorious 
highwayman  of  the  time,  named  “ Earrel  the  Bobber,” 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


21 


should  steal  away  his  mother  whilst  he  was  absent. 
This  phantom  haunted  all  his  hours  of  play  ; and  if,  for 
a time,  he  forgot  his  mother’s  fancied  danger,  upon 
recollecting  the  fact  he  deserted  his  playmates,  and  ran 
to  the  house  to  assure  himself  of  her  presence  and  safety. 
She,  in  her  turn,  used  to  watch  for  him  ; and  as  the 
eager  little  face  was  pressed  to  the  window,  she  smiled 
upon  it  those  smiles  which  gave  a balm  to  many  a sor- 
row in  after  years. 

A young,  warm  soul  like  this  could  not  confine  itself 
to  one  object  of  affection,  and  John’s  love  for  his  elder 
brother  Michael  was,  even  in  these  years,  tender  and 
devoted.  The  second  day  after  John’s  introduction  to 
Mr.  Buchanan’s  establishment,  Michael  was  placed  upon 
his  knees  in  the  centre  of  the  school-room,  in  punish- 
ment for  some  fault.  John  inquired  the  reason,  and 
finding  that  it  was  but  the  preliminary  to  a more  severe 
punishment,  rushed  to  his  brother’s  side,  and  threw  his 
arms  around  the  offender’s  neck.  The  master  ordered 
him  to  his  seat — he  but  clung  the  closer ; and  threats 
were  unavailing  to  induce  him  to  abandon  the  culprit. 
Bribes  were  tried  ; five  shillings  were  offered — he  was 
unpurchasable  ; two  crown  pieces,  bright  and  shining, 
were  clinked  before  him,  but  all  was  unavailing ; and 
at  length,  as  the  reward  of  his  consistent  affection,  his 
brother  was  forgiven.  John  led  him  in  triumph  to  his 
place,  and  having  seen  him  safely  seated,  burst,  for  the 
first  time  that  day,  into  tears. 

Michael  Banim,  the  father,  was,  as  we  have  written, 


22 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


a man  of  strong  and  violent  temper.  He  punished  his 
children  at  one  time  for  trifles  ; at  another  he  permitted 
more  serious  offences  to  pass  unreproved,  being  ever 
guided  by  the  feeling  of  the  moment,  which  was  excited 
by  various  circumstances  unconnected  with  the  partic- 
ular fault  before  him.  Mrs.  Banim  rarely  punished, 
yet  a reproving  word  from  her  lips  was  more  dreaded 
by  her  children  than  blows  and  violent  threats  from 
the  hand  and  tongue  of  their  father.  Indeed  so  great 
a feeling  of  terror  did  his  mother’s  anger  excite  in  the 
mind  of  John,  that  once,  when  he  had  watched  her 
through  a keyhole  flog  his  brother  for  some  offence  with 
a whip  which  he  had  frequently  seen  his  father  use  for 
a like  purpose,  he  became  so  much  terrified  at  the  un- 
usual occurrence,  that  he  ran  to  the  barrack-gate,  and 
entreated  the  sentry  to  come  and  save  his  brother,  whom 
his  mother  was  about  to  murder. 

These  are  but  the  traits  of  childhood,  which  friends 
treasure  up  in  memory,  to  make  a story  for  the  winter 
fireside  ; and  yet  they  show  the  spirit  of  a future  man, 
who  in  years  of  well -won,  honorably- worn  reputation, 
looks  back  to  those  days  of  childish  griefs  and  joys,  with 
swelling  heart,  because  they  were  the  days  of  home  and 
love. 

Mr.  Buchanan’s  Academy  was  not  exactly  suited  to 
a boy  of  Banim’s  disposition.  The  master  was  a clever 
man,  but  professed  to  teach  all  subjects,  commencing 
with  what  he  called  “ oratorical  reading,”  and  ending 
with  the  modern  languages.  He  was  an  excellent  in- 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


23 


structor  for  a more  advanced  pupil,  and  of  himself  and 
his  school  “ The  O’Hara  Family  ” have  given  the  follow- 
ing exceedingly  graphic  account,  in  the  novel  “ Father 
Connell  : ” — 

“Through  the  partition  separating  his  bed-chamber 
from  the  school-room  the  head  of  the  seminary  had 
bored  a good  many  holes,  nearly  an  inch  in  diameter, 
some  straight  forward,  some  slantingly,  to  enable  himself 
to  peer  into  every  corner  of  the  study,  before  entering 
it  each  morning;  and  this  is  to  be  kept  in  mind.  At 
either  end  of  the  long  apartment  was  a large  square 
window,  framed  with  stone,  and  indeed  stone  also  in  its 
principal  divisions.  Overhead  ran  enormous  beams  of 
old  oak,  and  in  the  spaces  between  them  were  monot- 
onous flights,  all  in  a row,  and  equally  distant  from 
each  other,  of  monotonous  angels,  in  stucco — the  usual 
children’s  heads,  with  goose  wings  shooting  from  under 
their  ears ; and  sometimes  one  or  two  of  these  angels 
became  fallen  angels,  flapping  down,  on  clipped  wings, 
either  upon  the  middle  of  the  floor,  or  else  upon  the 
boys’  heads,  as  they  sat  to  their  desks,  and  confusing 
them  and  their  books  and*slates  with  fragments  of  stucco 
and  mortar,  rotten  laths,  and  rusty  nails.  In  a kind  of 
recess,  on  the  side  of  the  school-room  opposite  to  the 
boys’  double  desks,  was  an  old  table,  flanked  by  a form, 
at  which,  at  certain  hours  of  the  day,  sat  some  half- 
dozen  young  girls,  from  six  to  ten  years,  who  came  up 
from  the  quaint  old  parlor  below,  under  the  care  of  the 
master’s  daughter,  who  therein  superintended  their  edu- 


24 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


cation  in  inferior  matters,  to  be  occasionally  delivered 
into  his  hands  for  more  excelling  instruction.  The 
principal  of  this  celebrated  seminary  wrote  himself  down 
in  full,  and  in  a precise  round  hand,  James  Charles 
Buchmahon,  and  his  establishment  as  ‘ the  English  Acad- 
emy ; 9 principal,  we  have  called  him — despotic  monarch 
we  should  have  called  him  ; for  he  never  had  had  more 
than  one  assistant,  and  the  head  of  that  one  he  broke 
before  they  had  been  many  weeks  together.  And  never 
were  absolute  monarchy  and  deep  searching  scrutiny  more 
distinctly  stamped  and  carved  on  any  countenance,  than 
upon  that  of  James  Charles  Buchmahon,  master  of  the 
English  Academy.  And  that  countenance  was  long  and 
of  a soiled  sallow  color  ; and  the  puckering  of  his  brows 
and  eyelids  awful ; and  the  unblinking  steadiness  of  his 
bluish  grey  eyes  insufferable  ; and  the  cold-blooded  reso- 
luteness of  his  marbly  lips  unrelaxable.  At  the  time 
we  speak  of  him,  James  Charles  Buchmahon  might  have 
been  between  fifty  and  sixty  ; but  he  wore  well.  He 
was  tall,  with  a good  figure  and  remarkably  well-turned 
limbs  ; ‘ and  he  had  the  gift  to  know  it/  for  in  order  not 
to  hide  a point  of  the  beauty* of  those  limbs  from  the 
world,  he  always  arrayed  them  in  very  tight  fitting  pan- 
taloons, which  reached  down  to  his  ankles.  His  coat 
and  waistcoat  were  invariably  black.  A very  small  white 
muslin  cravat,  and  a frill  sticking  out  quite  straight 
from  his  breast,  occupied  the  space  from  his  chin  to  his 
waist.  And  James  Charles  Buchmahon’s  hat  was  of 
cream  color  beaver,  high  crowned  and  broad  brimmed  ; 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


25 


and  lie  ever  carried  either  a formidable  walking-stick  of 
stout  oak,  or  else  a substitute  for  it,  made  of  five  or  six 
peeled  switches,  cunningly  twisted  together,  and  at  one 
end  loaded  with  lead.” 

From  this  establishment,  after  an  attendance  of  five 
years,  Banim  was  removed  to  a seminary  kept  by  the 
Bey.  Mr.  Magrath,  at  that  period  considered  the  best 
Roman  Catholic  school  in  Ireland  ; where  he  continued 
a pupil  for  about  twelve  months,  and  was  then  sent  to 
the  academy  of  a well-known  teacher,  named  Terence 
Doyle. 

Although  not  a very  idle  boy,  Banim  loved  to  study 
in  his  own  way,  and  at  his  own  time  ; and  his  chiefest 
pleasure  was  to  steal  away  from  school,  and  lying  under 
a hedge,  or  beneath  the  shelter  of  a haycock,  to  pore 
over  some  prized  volume  of  “ romance  or  fairy  fable.” 
Hans  Andersen,  in  all  his  dreamy  youth,  never  longed 
to  hear  the  lore  of  fairy-land  more  earnestly  than  did 
little  John  Banim,  and  his  ready  memory  enabled  him 
to  retain  the  subject  of  each  narrative  of  wonder.  From 
admiration,  however,  the  future  novelist  soon  aspired  to 
imitation  ; and  in  his  sixth  year,  having  listened  in  silent 
delight  to  a fairy  fiction  of  more  than  usual  interest,  he 
resolved  to  write  a story,  his  own  sole  composition. 

He  was  not  sufficiently  tall  to  write  conveniently  at 
a table,  even  when  seated,  and  having  placed  the  paper 
upon  his  bed-room  floor,  he  lay  down  beside  it  and 
commenced  the  construction  of  his  plot.  During  three 

months  he  devoted  nearly  all  his  hours  of  play  to  the 

2 


26 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


completion  of  liis  task  ; and  when  at  length  lie  had  con- 
cluded, the  writing  was  so  execrable  that  he  alone  could 
decipher  it.  In  this  dilemma  he  obtained  the  assistance 
of  his  brother  Michael,  and  of  a schoolfellow — they 
acted  as  amanuenses,  relieving  each  other  when  weary 
of  writing  from  John’s  dictation.  When  the  tale  was 
fully  transcribed,  it  was  stitched  in  a blue  cover,  and 
John  determined  that  it  should  be  printed.  But  here 
the  important  question  of  expense  arose  to  mind,  and 
after  long  deliberation  the  youthful  author  thought  of 
resorting  to  a subscription  publication.  Accordingly 
the  manuscript  was  shown  to  several  of  his  father’s 
friends,  and  in  the  course  of  a week  the  subscribers 
amounted  to  thirty,  at  a payment  of  one  shilling  each. 
Disappointment  was  again  the  lot  of  our  little  genius  ; 
for  in  all  Kilkenny  he  could  not  induce  a printer  to 
undertake  the  issuing  of  his  story.  This  was  a heavy 
blow  to  his  hopes  ; but  honorable,  even  as  a child,  he  no 
sooner  found  that  he  could  not  publish  the  tale  than  he 
waited  upon  his  subscribers  for  the  purpose  of  restoring 
to  them  their  shillings.  All  received  him  kindly,  and 
refused  the  money,  telling  him  that  they  were  quite 
satisfied  with  reading  the  manuscript. 

His  literary  efforts  did  not  end  with  his  fairy  story. 
*We  have  seen  a romance  in  two  thick  manuscript 
volumes,  written  in  his  tenth  year  ; and  have  looked 
through  several  manuscript  poems,  particularly  one 
extending  to  over  a thousand  lines,  entitled  “ Hibernia,’’ 
written  about  the  same  period. 


r 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM.  27 

This  early  authorship  is  not  unusual  amongst  those 
who  have  afterwards  distinguished  themselves  in  litera- 
ture, as  most  students  of  literary  history  are  aware. 
Cato  and  Hobbes,  Bacon  and  Descartes,  Boyle  and 
Alfieri,  Cowley  and  Pope,  with  a hundred  others,  were, 
in  childhood  as  in  manhood,  philosophers,  or  poets,  or 
painters.  Like  these  last,  Banim  longed  to  be  a poet, 
even  in  early  days  ; and  amid  his  stolen  rambles  in  the 
summer  fields  felt  all  that  joy  in  Nature,  which  Byron 
so  nobly  expressed,  when  he  makes  the  boy  Tasso  cry  : — 

From  my  very  birth 

My  soul  was  drunk  with  love,  which  did  pervade 
And  mingle  with  whate’er  I saw  on  earth  ; 

Of  objects  all  inanimate  I made 
Idols,  and  out  of  wild  and  lonely  flowers, 

And  rocks  whereby  they  grew,  a paradise, 

Where  I did  lay  me  down  within  the  shade 
Of  waving  trees,  and  dream’d  uncounted  hours, 

Though  I was  chid  for  wandering.77 

The  poetic  faculty,  indeed,  appears  generally  to  have 
developed  itself  in  early  life  ; and  whilst  Tasso,  Ariosto, 
and  Lope  de  Yega  were,  even  in  school  days,  poets  or 
romance  writers,  Boccaccio  tells  us, — and  the  analogy 
of  his  case  with  that  of  Banim  is  striking, — “ Before 
seven  years  of  age,  when  as  yet  I had  met  with  no 
stories,  was  without  a master,  and  hardly  knew  my 
letters,  I had  a natural  talent  for  fiction,  and  produced 
some  little  tales.” 

But  neither  in  the  biography  of  Boccaccio,  nor  of  any 
other  man  of  genius,  can  we  discover  efforts  so  ardent 


28 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


and  persevering  to  secure  self-improvement  as  those 
exhibited,  even  in  childhood,  by  Banim.  "Whilst  in  his 
ninth  year,  he  began  a strange  birth-day  observance. 
About  a week  before  his  birth-day  he  commenced  the 
arrangement  and  perusal  of  all  the  verses,  and  pieces  in 
prose,  composed  during  the  preceding  year.  "When  all 
had  been  read,  and  duly  criticised,  he  generally  found 
that  one  set  was  puerile, — he  himself  being  but  a child, 
— another  set  was  turgid,  a third  portion  was  dull,  a 
fourth  lot  was  forced  or  unnatural ; and  the  boy  Banim 
was  as  fastidious  in  self-criticism  as,  in  grave  manhood, 
were  Gibbon,  Buffon,  or  Campbell.  The  evening  of  the 
birth-day  having  arrived,  the  condemned  manuscripts 
were  gathered  in  a pile,  to  which  a lighted  match  was 
applied,  and  as  the  blaze  mounted  high  the  little  author 
danced  gleefully  around  the  holocaust. 

He  felt  no  regret  in  thus  destroying  his  compositions. 
He  was  resolved  that  the  productions  of  his  intellect  in 
the  succeeding  year  should  be  superior  to  those  of  the 
past,  and  fancied  that  the  pieces  condemned  to  the 
flames  would  but  disgrace  the  more  finished  efforts  of 
the  months  to  come. 

Banim,  from  early  youth,  had  all  that  adoration  of 
Poetry  which  is  the  characteristic  of  genius  ; and  his 
love  for 

“ The  pleasing  cadence  of  a line, 

Struck  by  the  concert  of  the  sacred  nine,’7 

was  only  equalled  by  his  admiration  of  a poet.  A good 
example  of  his  self-estimate,  and  of  this  poetic  feeling, 


BIOCKAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


29 


was  exhibited  in  his  tenth  year.  The  private  theatre 
of  Kilkenny  was  then  open,  and  Banim  was  admitted 
to  witness  one  of  the  performances.  He  was  delighted 
with  all  he  saw.  Everything  around  was  so  unusual : 
the  audience  all  in  full  dress,  a brilliantly  lighted  house, 
the  glittering  costume  of  the  actors,  the  beauty  of  the 
scenery,  all  rendered  the  spot  a fairy  realm  for  the 
child-poet. 

He  did  not,  however,  attend  so  much  for  the  purpose 
of  seeing  the  play,  as  for  that  of  observing  his  idol, 
Thomas  Moore,  who  was  one  of  the  performers.  He 
was  then  in  the  first  glory  of  his  success,  and  formed 
the  theme  of  general  conversation.  On  the  occasion 
of  Banim’s  visit  to  the  theatre,  Moore  recited  his  own 
“ Monologue  on  National  Music.”  It  was  encored,  and 
Banim  was  the  loudest  of  those  demanding  the  repe- 
tition. The  beauty  of  the  poetry  struck  the  fancy  of 
the  child,  and  so  profound  was  the  impression  created 
by  it  upon  his  memory,  that  he,  the  following  morning, 
repeated  the  entire  with  almost  perfect  accuracy,  and 
with  the  gestures  and  inflections  employed  by  Moore  in 
its  delivery.  After  having  breakfasted,  he  was  observed 
to  dress  himself  in  his  best  clothes,  and  the  family  saw 
him  leave  the  shop,  and,  with  a roll  of  papers  under  his 
arm,  walk  towards  the  house  in  which  Moore  lodged  : 
he  was  about  to  introduce  himself  to  Moore  as  a brother 
poet,  and  the  roll  of  papers  was  the  manuscript  verses 
by  which  he  meant  to  prove  his  right  to  the  “ honorable 
name.”  Moore,  remembering  probably  the  trembling 


30 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


anxiety  with  which  he  had,  in  his  fourteenth  year,  sent 
“ the  attempts  of  a youthful  muse  ” to  the  editor  of 
(i  The  Anthologia  Hibernica,”  and  the  “ honor  and  glory  ” 
which  he  enjoyed  when  he  found  himself,  shortly  after- 
wards, called  “our  esteemed  correspondent  T.  M.,”* 
received  his  odd  little  visitor  kindly.  He  read  a few  of 
the  verses,  inquired  as  to  his  progress  at  school,  advised 
him  to  be  attentive  and  diligent,  and  closed  the  interview 
by  asking,  if  there  was  anything  he  could  do  to  oblige 
his  “ brother  poet.”  To  be  called  his  “ brother  poet  ” 
was  quite  sufficient  for  Banim  ; but  the  offer  of  obliging 
him  was  too  flattering  to  be  slighted,  so,  after  some  con- 
sideration, he  told  the  good-natured  bard  that  there  was 
nothing  in  the  world  he  should  like  so  much  as  a season 
ticket  to  the  private  theatre,  where  he  could  see  Mr. 
Moore  on  the  nights  of  performance.  This  request  was 
at  once  granted,  and,  for  the  remainder  of  the  theatrical 
season,  little  John  Banim  was  happy  as  his  heart  could 
desire, — the  same  ticket  which  opened  the  theatre  to 
him  was,  he  considered,  a tribute  to  his  poetic  ability. 
And  how  the  boy’s  soul  would  have  swelled  could  he 
then  have  known  that  but  twenty-two  years  later  his 
own  fame  would  be  so  fully  acknowledged  that  this  same 
great  poet,  whom  he  was  now  so  anxious  to  please, 
would,  when  in  Kilkenny,  call  upon  old*  Michael  Banim, 
and,  finding  that  he  was  from  home,  write,  as  a card, 
and  leave  for  the  old  man,  these  words — “ Mr.  Thomas 

* See  Moore’s  “ Journal  and  Correspondence,”  vol.  i.  p.  22;  and  “Irish  Quar- 
terly Review,”  vol.  ii.  No.  vi.  p.  385. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


31 


Moore  called  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  father  of  the 
author  of  ‘ The  O’Hara  Family ! 5 ” * 

Literary  pursuits,  however,  were  not  the  only  ones  by 
which  Banim’s  attention  was  engaged  : he  frequently 
devoted  his  play  hours  to  mechanical  inventions.  He 
formed  a complicated  machine  which  was  to  realize  that 
dream  of  philosophy — perpetual  motion.  Having  read 
“ Rasselas,”  he  fancied  that  the  philosopher  of  the  happy 
valley  must  have  been  a very  unskilful  artificer.  He 
accordingly,  of  wicker-work  and  brown  paper,  formed 
three  pair  of  wings,  and  fastened  one  wing  to  each 
"wrist  of  his  brother,  and  of  his  younger  sister ; having 
mounted  with  his  two  companions  upon  a manure  heap, 
he  fastened  the  remaining  pair  of  wings  to  his  own 
wrists,  and  all  three,  jumping  from  their  eminence,  found 
themselves,  in  place  of  soaring  to  the  clouds,  deposited 
in  the  “ verdant  mud”  which  formed  their  lake.  His 
next  attempt  was  the  construction  of  sky-rockets,  intend- 
ed to  mount  to  a most  extraordinary  height,  but  which 
only  blazed  along  the  ground,  burning  the  pyrotechnist, 
and  almost  destroying  the  house. 

This  last  exploit  developed  a very  remarkable  trait  in 
his  character.  His  father  was  so  much  offended  by  the 
danger  to  which  the  family  and  the  building  had  been 
exposed,  that  in  one  of  his  outbreaks  of  passion  he 
ordered  the  child  to  leave  the  house,  and  seek  his  fortune 
in  the  world.  John  took  his  cap,  and  went  forth.  It 
was  a winter  night,  dark  and  cold,  with  a roaring  wind 

* Moore’s  “Journal  and  Correspondence,”  vol.  vi.  p.  136. 


32 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


abroad.  Away  the  boy  went.  Mrs.  Banim  was  silent, 
knowing  that  remonstrance  could  conduce  to  no  end, 
save  that  of  increasing  her  husband’s  anger  ; and  even 
he  seemed  anxious,  but  was  too  passionate  to  recall  the 
offender.  A quarter  of  an  hour  elapsed,  and  a sturdy 
knock  was  heard  at  the  door  : it  was  opened,  and  John 
reappeared.  He  approached  his  father,  and  taking  off* 
his  cap,  said,  “ As  I am  to  go,  I’ll  thank  you,  sir,  for  the 
sixpence  I lent  you  the  other  day  ; ” — this  was  the  last 
remaining  sixpence  of  the  thirty  shillings  subscribed  for 
the  unprinted  fairy  tale  ; and  with  it  he  was  as  willing, 
though  a child,  to  commence  his  way  in  the  world,  with 
as  bold  a heart,  as  self-reliant  a confidence,  as  when,  in 
later  years,  he  went  forth  with  his  young  wife  to  venture 
upon  the  troubled  tide  of  literature.  The  sixpence  was 
repaid  him,  but,  in  addition,  a second  was  given,  and  he 
was  ordered  to  bed,  his  father  having  forgotten  all  his 
anger  in  the  surprise  of  the  moment. 

These  were  Banim’s  characteristics,  and  these  are  the 
* histories  of  his  life,  in  early  school  days. 

When  he  had  continued  for  about  twelve  months  at 
Mr.  Doyle’s  academy,  he  was  removed,  in  his  thirteenth 
year,  to  that  seminary  which  can  show  upon  its  register 
the  names  of  many  men  illustrious  in  literature — Kil- 
kenny College.  Of  this  college  Banim  has  left  us  the 
following  account,  in  his  tale,  “ The  Fetches  : ” — • 

“Kilkenny  College  was  the  most  famous  as  well  as 
the  most  ancient  preparatory  school  of  Ireland.  It 
commenced  as  an  appendage  to  the  magnificent  cathe- 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


33 


dral  of  St.  Canice,  for  the  preservation  of  which,  after 
Cromwell’s  spoliation,  we  are  indebted  to  the  classic 
Pococke,  and  was  then  situated,  according  to  Staniliurst, 
‘ in  the  weste  of  the  churchyard  ’ of  that  edifice,  and 
had  for  its  founder  Pierce  or  Peter  Butler,  Earl  of 
Ormond  and  Ossory.  And  c out  of  this  schoole,’  con- 
tinues Stanihurst,  ‘have  sprouted  such  proper  impes, 
through  the  painful  diligence,  and  laboursome  industrie 
of  that  famous  lettered  man,  Mr.  Peter  White,  as  gener- 
ally the  whole  weale  publicke  of  Ireland,  and  especially 
the  southern  parts  of  that  island,  are  greatly  thereby 
furthered.’  We  have  a sure  clue  to  the  date  of  its  first 
erection,  by  the  same  writer  mentioning  that  fact  as 
‘ of  late  ; ’ and  also  by  his  proceeding  to  inform  us  that 
(under  Mr.  Peter  White,  the  original  master)  cit  was 
my  happie  hap  (God  and  my  parents  be  thanked)  to 
have  been  one  of  his  crue  ; and  I take  it  to  stande 
with  my  dutie,  sith  I may  not  stretch  mine  abilitie  in 
requiting  his  good  turns,  yet  to  manifest  my  good  will  in 
remembering  his  pains.  And  certes  I wTill  acknowledge 
myself  so  much  bound,  and  beholden  to  him  and  his,  as 
for  his  sake,  I reverence  the  meanest  stone  cemented 
in  the  walls  of  that  famous  schoole.’  In  1684,  the  first 
Duke  of  Ormond,  then  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland, 
granted  a new  charter  to  Kilkenny  College,  vesting  in 
himself  and  his  heirs  male  the  appointment  of  masters, 
and  the  office  and  dignity  of  patrons  and  governors  of 
the  establishment.  The  statutes  passed  by  him  on  this 
occasion,  no  less  than  twenty-five  in  number,  are  each 


34 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


of  formidable  length,  regulating  everything,  from  the 
master’s  morals,  religion,  and  salary,  to  the  punishment 
to  be  inflicted  upon  an  urchin  for  ‘ cutting  or  defacing 
the  desks  or  forms,  walls  or  windows  of  the  school.’ 
Under  this  new  arrangement  the  college  also  changed 
its  situation  from  ‘ the  weste  of  the  churchyard  ’ of  St. 
Canice,  to  a large  building  at  the  other  extremity  of 
the  town  of  Kilkenny,  which  together  with  a fine  park, 
and  the  rectories  and  tithes  of  several  parishes,  near 
and  distant,  the  patron  granted,  in  trust,  for  its  uses 
and  advantage.  But  during  the  short  and  inauspicious 
Irish  reign  of  James  II.,  that  soon  after  ensued,  this 
endowment  was  frustrated.  The  first  master,  appointed 
by  the  Duke  of  Ormond,  fled  on  account  of  his  politics  ; 
and  ‘King  James,’  says  Harris,  ‘by  a charter  dated  the 
21st  of  February,  1689,  upon  the  ruins  of  this  school, 
erected  and  endowed  a royal  college,  consisting  of  a 
rector,  eight  professors,  and  two  scholars  in  the  name 
of  more,  to  be  called  the  Royal  College  of  St.  Canice, 
Kilkenny,  of  the  foundation  of  King  James  : ’ and  then 
followed  ‘ Articles  conclus  du  consentement  unanime  des 
regents  des  ecoles  de  Kilkenny,  sous  le  protection  de 
1’illustrissime,  et  reverendissime  l’evesque  d’Ossory,’  as 
curious,  at  least,  as  the  state  laws  previously  passed 
for  the  same  establishment  under  hand  and  seal  of  the 
representative  of  majesty.  "William  triumphed,  however  ; 
James  sought  the  retirement  of  St.  Germains,  Ireland 
once  more  rested  beneath  the  reflux  of  Protestantism, 
and  Kilkenny  College,  in  common  with  every  other 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


35 


public  institution,  reassumed  its  Protestant  charter  and 
arrangement,  and  to  this  day  continues  to  enjoy  both, 
with,  we  should  perhaps  mention,  only  one  difference 
from  the  whole  economy  proposed  by  the  first  Duke  of 
Ormond ; and  that  is,  remarkably  enough,  a lapse  of 
the  right  of  presentation  to  the  school  by  the  Ormoncl 
family,  in  consequence  of  the  attainder  of  the  Duke  in 
1715,  and  the  vesture  of  said  right  in  the  provost  and 
fellows  of  Trinity,  Dublin.  It  has  been  seen  that  Stani- 
hurst  was  a ‘ proper  impe  ’ of  the  old  establishment ; 
Harris,  by  his  own  acknowledgment,  too,  was  also 
educated  in  Kilkenny  College,  under  the  first  master 
nominated  by  the  Duke  of  Ormond  ; as  also  were  sub- 
sequently, Thomas  Prior,  George  Berkeley,  Bishop  of 
Cloyne,  and  other  celebrated  characters  ; among  whom, 
if  our  recollection  does  not  fail  us,  we  believe  w~e  may 
rank  Swift.  In  fact,  it  was  after  its  return  to  the  hands 
of  Protestant  masters  and  governors  that  this  seminary 
rose  to  the  height  of  its  fame,  and  that  young  Irish 
noblemen  and  gentlemen  crowded  its  classes  for  the 
most  approved  preparation  for  university  honors.  It 
might  be  called  the  then  Eton  of  the  sister  country. 
¥e  find  it  necessary  to  observe  that  the  building  to 
which  the  title  ‘ College  of  Kilkenny  ’ now  applies  is  not 
the  same  endowed  by  the  Duke  of  Ormond.  The  Irish 
tourist  is  at  present  shown,  from  an  opposite  bank  of  the 
Nore,  a large  square  modern  house,  three  stories  high, 
dashed  or  plastered,  and  flaunting  with  gay  and  ample 
windows  ; and  this,  he  is  informed,  is  the  college.  Turn- 


36 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


ing  its  back,  in  suitable  abstraction,  upon  the  hum  and 
bustle  of  the  small  though  populous  city,  it  faces  towards 
the  green  country,  an  extensive  lawn  spreading  before  it, 
and  the  placid  river  running  hard  by,  and  is,  altogether, 
appropriately  and  beautifully  situated.  But  the  original 
edifice,  that  existed  at  the  time  of  our  story,  was  pushed 
further  back,  faced  into  the  street  of  the  town,  and  was 
a grey,  reverend  pile  of  irregular  and  rather  straggling 
design,  or,  we  should  perhaps  say,  of  no  design  at  all, 
having,  partly,  a monastic  physiognomy,  and  partly  that 
of  a dwelling-house,  and  bearing,  to  its  present  gay 
successor,  about  the  same  likeness  that  the  levee  skirts 
of  Anne’s  time  bear  to  the  smart  swallow-tail  of  the  last 
summer  but  one.  We  surmise  that,  at  a more  remote 
period,  it  belonged  to  the  old  and  beautiful  Augustinian 
Abbey  of  St.  John,  of  which  the  main  building  was  not 
more  than  three  hundred  yards  distant,  and  which  was 
richly  endowed  ‘ for  the  salvation  of  his  soul  and  those 
of  his  predecessors  and  successors’  (asLedwich  abstracts 
its  charter)  by  William  Marshall  the  elder  Earl  of 
Pembroke,  in  1220.  The  entrance  to  the  school-room 
was  immediately  from  the  street,  through  huge  oak 
folding-doors,  arching  at  top  to  suit  the  arched  stone 
doorway,  and  gained  by  two  grand  flights  of  steps  at 
each  side,  that  formed  a spacious  platform  before  the 
entrance,  and  allowed  under  them  a passage  by  which 
visitors  approached  the  college.  To  the  left  was  another 
gateway  where  carriages  had  egress.  The  whole  front 
of  the  building  was  of  cut  stone,  with  Gothic  windows 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM.  £7 

composed  of  numerous  small  panes  of  glass,  separately 
leaded,  and  each  of  diamond  form  ; giving  the  appear- 
ance of  a side  or  back  rather  than  of  a front,  on  account 
of  its  grotesque  gables,  chimneys,  and  spouts,  the  last 
of  which  jetted  into  the  street,  to  the  no  small  annoyance 
in  rainy  weather  of  the  neighbors  and  the  passengers  ; 
wdiile  from  the  platform  before  the  school-room  entrance, 
the  lads  of  the  college  contrived,  in  all  weathers,  further 
annoyances  of  every  description.  But  in  the  past,  as 
well  as  the  present  time,  the  lawn  of  the  college  was 
devoted  to  the  exercise  and  sports  of  the  students,  and 
had,  for  its  left  hand  boundary,  ‘the  dark  walk/ — a 
shrubbery  so  called  to  this  day,  though  its  appearance, 
and  indeed  identity,  are  changed, — and  for  its  right  the 
crystal  Nore,  of  which  the  opposite  banks  were  flanked 
by  a wall  some  forty  feet  high  ; and  over  this  wall — its 
foundations  on  a level  with  the  top — towered  in  uncouth 
grandeur,  amid  throngs  of  luxuriant  trees,  the  old  family 
castle  of  the  all  but  regal  Ormonds.  Close  by  the  dark 
walk,  at  the  left  of  the  lawn,  there  ran  too,  as  there  at 
present  runs,  an  artificial,  but  deep,  rapid,  and  suffi- 
ciently broad  stream,  conjectured  to  have  been  an  aque- 
duct formed  by  the  old  monks  of  St.  John’s  Abbey,  that 
while  it  discharged  its  immediate  agency  of  setting  in 
motion  the  waterwheels  of  more  than  one  grist-mill 
on  its  course,  served,  at  the  same  time,  to  ci^t  off  the 
college  grounds  from  the  adjacent  gardens  of  the  poorer 
class  of  people  who  inhabited  the  near  outlet.” 

At  the  period  of  Banim’s  entrance  the  Bev.  Andrew 


38 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


O’Callaghan  was  master.  He  was  a man  of  learning  and 
ability,  but  our  young  poet  disapproved  of  one  por- 
tion of  his  system  of  instruction — the  complaint  was, 
that  Mr.  O’Callaghan  preferred  a strict,  grammatical 
translation  in  prose,  to  the  most  flowing  and  spirited 
metrical  version  his  pupil  could  produce. 

Whilst  at  the  Kilkenny  College,  Banim  evinced  a very 
remarkable  talent  for  drawing  and  painting  ; and  having 
selected  the  profession  of  an  artist  as  that  to  which  he 
wished  to  devote  his  life,  he  was,  in  the  year  1813,  re- 
moved from  his  last  school,  the  College  of  Kilkenny,  and 
sent  to  Dublin,  where  he  became  a pupil  in  the  drawing- 
academy  of  the  Royal  Dublin  Society.  He  continued 
a pupil  in  this  academy  during  the  two  succeeding  years, 
and  was  a regular  and  industrious  student.  He  had  the 
honor  to  receive  the  highest  prize  in  the  gift  of  the 
committee,  for  his  drawings  placed  in  the  first  exhibition 
held  after  his  year  of  entrance. 

During  his  two  years  of  pupilage  he  lodged  and 
boarded  in  Phibsborough,  in  the  house  of  a Mr.  Oliver 
Wheeler,  an  old  friend  of  his  father.  Of  Wheeler’s 
habits,  appearance,  his  household,  and  mode  of  life, 
Banim  gave  the  following  sketch,  in  “The  Nowlans,” 
when  describing  the  poor  abode  of  John  and  Letty 
Nowlan  : — 

“ The  old  man,  who  had  some  petty  situation  of  thirty 
or  forty  pounds  a year  in  some  public  office,  was  upwards 
of  seventy-five  years,  tall,  shrivelled,  stooped  in  the  neck, 
ill  set  on  his  limbs,  and  with  a peculiar  drag  of  one  leg, 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


39 


which,  from  certain  reasons,  and  taken  with  other  things, 
rendered  him  very  disagreeable  to  John.  He  was  obliged 
to  be  up  every  morning  at  seven,  in  order  to  reach  his 
office,  or  place  of  occupation,  by  eight ; and  he  might 
be  heard  creeping  about  the  lower  part  of  the  house, 
making  the  parlor  and  kitchen  fires,  to  save  his  daughter 
and  niece  so  much  trouble  ; cooking  his  own  solitary 
breakfast,  his  fat  wife  lying  in  bed  ; and  then  cautiously 
shutting  the  hall-door  after  him,  as,  rubbing  his  hands, 
he  tried  to  bustle  off  in  a brisk,  youthful  pace,  to  his 
important  day’s  work.  His  voice  could  never  be  heard 
in  the  house  : if  ever  a man  of  a house  lived  under  pet- 
ticoat law,  it  was  he.  The  coarse,  masculine,  guttural 
tones  of  his  spouse  often  rose,  indeed,  to  some  pitch  ; 
but  his,  never.  In  other  respects,  too,  he  showed  utter 
pusillanimity  of  spirit.  He  would  never  appear  to  John, 
in  answer  to  a summons  for  arranging  any  misunder- 
standing (and  several  there  soon  arose)  between  him  or 
poor  Letty,  and  the  daughter  or  niece  ; his  wTife  always 
represented  him  ; and  he  would  run  to  hide  behind  a 
door,  or  into  the  yard,  if  he  heard  John’s  foot  on  the 
stairs  during  these  domestic  commotions  ; nay,  even 
when  all  w^as  at  peace,  his  habitual  poverty  of  nerve 
urged  him  to  shun  a single  rencontre  with  his  lodger:  or, 
perhaps,  he  still  dreaded  to  be  called  to  account  for 
anything  his  wife  or  daughter  had  said  ; and  whenever 
he  was  caught  by  John  in  the  passage,  or  the  yard,  his 
fidgets,  as  he  lisped  and  mumbled,  and  continually 
tapped  his  chest  with  one  hand,  ever  complaining  of  his 


40 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


asthma,  called  up  sentiments  of  irresistible  disgust.  His 
sole  attempts  at  manhood  we  have  indicated,  in  describ- 
ing the  way  he  used  to  step  out  to  his  day’s  labor  every 
morning.  But  rarer  proofs  of  this  still  farcical  and 
contemptible  humor  came  under  John’s  eye.  As  he  and 
his  ancient  fellow-laborer  before  described  (a  contrast 
to  him,  by  the  way,  being  square-built,  erect  in  his  body, 
cross  in  his  temper,  and  loud  and  independent  in  his 
tones)  used  to  fumble  about  in  the  yard  of  an  evening, 
chopping  or  sawing  sticks  and  rotten  boards,  and  mend- 
ing the  little  sheds  with  them,  or  for  ever  watering  the 
roots  of  the  sad  laburnum-tree,  there  was  a would-be 
briskness  in  his  every  motion  (he  knew  his  wife  was 
always  looking  at  him  out  of  the  parlor  window),  an 
energy  in  the  way  he  grasped  his  saw,  adze,  or  hammer, 
or  his  watering-pot,  and  jerked  them  from  hand  to  hand, 
or  upon  a bench,  when  he  had  done  with  them  ; all  of 
which  plainly  bespoke  his  ambition  not  to  pass  c for  so 
very  old  a man,  neither  ; ’ certainly  to  give  an  idea  that 
he  was  a miracle  for  his  age.  Every  Sunday  he  appeared 
caparisoned  for  church  in  a complete  shining  suit  of 
black,  taken  out  of  a press,  and  in  a hat,  also  shining, 
extracted  from  one  of  his  wife’s  early  bandboxes  ; the 
clothes  and  the  hat  some  ten  years  in  his,  or  rather  in 
her  possession,  and  thus  displayed  once  a week  during 
that  period,  yet  both  looking  as  if  sent  home  the  Satur- 
day night  before  ; and  indeed,  considering  that  they 
had  encountered  scarce  three  months  of  careful  wear 
altogether,  namely,  the  wear  of  about  two  hours  every 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


41 


seventh  day  for  ten  years,  it  was  not,  after  all,  so  sur- 
prising they  should  look  so  new.  Sometimes  his  wife 
allowed  him  to  invite  to  a Sunday  dinner  five  or  six  old 
men  like  himself,  all  clad  in  shining  black  too ; and  when 
John  saw  them  come  crawling  towards  the  house,  or, 
joined  with  their  host,  crawling  and  stalking  about  the 
yard,  he  felt  an  odd  sensation  of  disgust,  such  as  he 
thought  might  be  aroused  by  the  sight  of  so  many  old 
shining  black  beetles  ; the  insects  that,  of  all  that  crept, 
were  his  antipathy  and  loathing.  His  wife  has  been 
called  fat : she  was  so,  to  excess  ; so  much  so,  that  she 
waddled  under  her  own  fardel — herself  : but  she  was 
strong  and  sturdy  too  ; and  her  waddle  did  not  lessen 
the  length  and  stamp  of  her  stride,  when,  upon  occa- 
sions that  required  a show  of  authority,  she  came  out 
to  scold,  or,  as  her  niece  called  it,  to  'ballyrag/  in  the 
kitchen,  at  her  hand-maidens,  or  in  the  hall,  at  her  poor 
lodgers  upstairs.  Then  the  little  house  shook  from  top 
to  bottom  under  her  heavy  and  indignant  step,  as  well 
as  with  the  echoes  of  her  coarse  man’s  voice,  half  smoth- 
ered amid  the  fat  of  her  throat,  and  the  sputterings  of 
her  great  pursy  lips.  And  poor  Letty  also  shook,  from 
top  to  toe,  on  these  occasions,  and  flew  for  shelter  to 
John’s  arms.  When  not  called  upon  thus  to  enforce 
law  in  any  refractory  branch  of  her  garrison,  Mrs. 
Grimes  spent  the  day  in  a vast  indolent  arm-chair, 
reading  pathetic  novels  of  the  last  age,  or  casting  up 
her  accounts,  to  reassure  herself,  over  and  over  again,  of 
the  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence,  laid  up  during  the  last 


42 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


month  or  week,  and  how  half  a farthing  might  be  split 
for  six  months  to  come.  Every  day,  by  twelve  o’clock, 
she  was  dressed ‘like  any  lady’  (still  according  to  her 
niece)  to  receive  her  cronies,  or  strike  with  importance 
the  tax-collectors  or  landlord’s  agent,  none  of  whom  had 
ever  to  call  a second  time  ; and  that  was  her  constant 
boast : but  even  there,  shut  up  in  her  parlor,  the  old 
female  despot  was  fully  as  much  dreaded  as  if  her  voice 
and  her  stride  sounded  every  moment  through  the  house, 
or  as  much  as  if  she  had  lain  there  screwed  down  in  her 
coffin,  and  that,  at  the  least  turn  of  a hand,  herself  or 
her  ghost  might  come  out  to  roar  for  a strict  reckoning. 
Her  daughter  and  niece  (the  latter  an  orphan)  supplied 
the  place  of  a servant  maid,  in  lieu  of  the  eating,  drink- 
ing, sleeping,  such  as  it  was,  that  came  to  their  lot. 
They  were  of  a size,  and  that  size  very  little  ; of  an 
age,  and  that  more  than  thirty  ; but  from  their  stunted 
growth,  hard,  liny  shape,  and  nondescript  expression  of 
features,  might  pass  for  ten  years  younger,  or  ten  years 
older,  as  the  spectator  fancied.  They  gave  no  idea  of 
flesh  and  blood.  They  never  looked  as  if  they  wero 
warm,  or  soft  to  the  touch.  One  would  as  soon  think 
of  flirting  with  them,  as  with  the  old  wooden  effigies 
to  be  found  in  the  niches  of  old  cathedrals.  They 

imparted  no  notion,  much  less  sensation  of  sex.  But 
they  were  as  active  as  bees,  and  as  strong  as  little  horses ; 
and  as  despotic  and  cruel,  if  they  dared,  and  whenever 
they  dared,  as  the  old  tyrant  herself.  From  the  moment 
they  arose  in  the  morning,  thump,  thump,  thump,  went 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM, 


43 


their  little  heels,  through  the  passage,  to  the  kitchen, 
up  stairs  and  down  stairs,  or  into  the  parlor,  to  see  after 
the  fires  the  old  man  had  lighted  ; to  make  up  the  beds  ; 
to  prepare  breakfast ; to  put  everything  to  rights  ; to 
sweep,  to  brush,  to  shake  carpets,  to  clean  shoes,  knives, 
and  forks  ; to  rub,  scrub,  polish,  and  beautify,  for  ever 
and  ever  ; the  daughter  always  leading  the  niece  ; and 
the  whole  of  this  gone  through  in  a sturdy,  important, 
vain-glorious  manner ; accompanied  by  slapping  of  doors, 
every  two  minutes,  and  (ever  since  Letty  had  refused  to 
go  down  to  the  parlor  to  join  an  evening  party)  by  loud, 
rude  talking,  and  boisterous  laughing,  just  to  show  that 
they  did  not  care  a farthing  for  the  kind  of  conceited 
poor  lodgers  they  had  got  in  the  house.  The  house- 
keeping of  the  establishment  was  peculiarly  loathsome 
to  John.  The  baker  had  never  sent  in  a loaf,  bun, 
roll,  biscuit,  or  muffin,  since  the  day,  now  some  fifteen 
years  ago,  when  Mrs.  Grimes  came  to  reside  in  the 
neighborhood  : and  even  the  home-made  bread  was  of 
the  coarsest  possible  quality,  and  often  used  a fortnight 
after  it  had  been  baked.  Each  day  the  dairyman  left 
one  half  penny  worth  of  milk  at  the  door.  They  made 
their  own  precious  mould  candles,  or  burnt  such  nefa- 
rious oil  in  the  kitchen  lamp,  or,  upon  a gala  night,  in 
the  passage,  as  poisoned  and  fumigated  the  whole  house. 
The  morning  tea-leaves  were  preserved  and  boiled  for 
evening.  No  eggs,  no  fresh  butter,  ever  appeared.  The 
fires,  after  having  been  once  made  up  in  the  morning, 
were  slaked  with  a compost  of  coal-dust  and  yellow  clay. 


44 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


which,  shaped  into  balls,  also  formed  stuffing  between  the 
bars.  Upon  a Saturday  evening,  the  old  man  sneaked 
out  to  drive  hard  bargains  for  some  of  the  odds  and 
ends  left  in  the  butcher’s  stall  after  the  day’s  sale  ; and 
these,  conveyed  home  by  stealth,  furnished,  by  means 
of  salting  and  hanging  up  in  a cool  place,  savory  dinners 
for  the  week.  Upon  a washing-day,  starch  was  made 
out  of  potatoes,  to  save  a farthing.  No  charity  was  in 
the  house,  nor  in  a heart  in  the  house.  In  the  faces  of 
all  professed  beggars  the  street-door  was  slammed  with- 
out a word,  but  with  a scowl  calculated  to  wither  up  the 
wretched  suitor  ; and  with  respect  to  such  as  strove  to 
hide  the  profession  under  barrel-organs,  flutes,  flageolets, 
hurdy-gurdies,  or  the  big  drum  and  pandean  pipes,  their 
tune  was  indeed  listened  to,  but  never  requited.  Yet 
the  family  was  a pious  family.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grimes 
sallied  out  to  church  every  Sunday,  and  sat  at  the  parlor- 
window  every  Sunday  evening  (while  their  daughter  and 
niece  went,  in  turn,  to  have  a rest,  as  they  said),  a huge 
old  Bible  open  before  them,  and  visible  to  all  passers 
by,  that  the  neighbors  might  remark,  ‘ There’s  a fine  old 
couple ! ’ John,  however,  thought  it  odd  that,  after  all 
this,  his  cold  mutton  or  his  cold  beef  used  to  come  up 
to  him,  out  of  the  safe  (a  pretty  csafe,’  truly),  rather 
diminished  since  he  had  last  the  pleasure  of  seeing  it ; 
and  one  Sunday  evening,  after  listening  for  half  an  hour 
to  the  daughter’s  shrill  voice  reading  the  Bible  before 
supper,  when,  on  particular  business,  he  somewhat  sud- 
denly entered  the  parlor,  he  was  still  more  surprised  to 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


45 


find  the  good  family  seated  round  the  ham  (a  rare 
temptation,  no  doubt,  in  their  system  of  housekeeping) 
which  that  day  had  formed  part  of  his  dinner.  But 
nothing  irked  him  half  so  much  as  the  ostentatious  tri- 
umph oyer  starvation,  the  provoking  assumption  of 
comfort,  nay,  elegance,  as  it  were,  and  the  audacious 
independence  which  resulted  from  the  whole  economy. 
He  felt  it,  as  before  hinted,  to  be  the  most  irritating 
specimen  of  poverty.  Old  Grimes’s  glossy  Sunday  coat, 
perpetually  the  same,  was  worse  than  the  clouted  gaber- 
dine of  a roving  beggar.  Every  burnished  thing  around 
him  seemed  to  shine  with  a beggarly  polish.  The  whole 
house  and  its  inhabitants  had  an  air  of  looking  better 
than  they  really  were,  or  ought  to  be  ; and  the  meanness, 
the  sturdiness,  the  avarice,  the  hard-heartedness,  that 
produced  this  polish  and  this  air,  he  considered  as 
loathsome  as  the  noise,  the  thumping  about,  the  loud 
talking,  and  the  endless  fagging  of  the  two  little  skinny 
Helots  was  brazen  and  vexatious.” 

We  have  given  these,  and  former  extracts,  from  Banim’s 
works,  as  they  prove  how  strongly  the  every-day  events 
of  his  early  life  became  impressed  upon  his  mind  ; and 
how  he,  like  Sir  Walter,  Galt,  and  Moir,  drew  from  the 
world  around  him  the  materials  of  which  the  scenes  and 
characters  of  his  novels  were  composed.  Thus  situated, 
the  poor  boy  worked  out  his  lonely  time.  But  even 
here  the  depressing  effects  of  his  abode  could  not  re- 
press his  ardent  industry,  or  overcome  his  love  of 
literature  ; and  whilst  residing  at  Oliver  Wheeler’s,  he 


46 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


first  “saw  himself  in  print.”  The  piece  was  a metrical 
criticism  on  the  Exhibition  of  Irish  Artists,  and  was 
entitled  “ A Dialogue  in  the  Exhibition  Room.” 

We  shall  now  introduce  some  extracts  from  his  letters 
written  during  his  residence  in  Dublin.  In  each  of  these, 
as  in  all  those  which  we  shall  insert,  addressed  by  him  to 
his  friends  at  home,  there  is  a love  of  all  that  surrounded 
the  hearth  which  recalls  those  beautiful  letters  written 
by  Moore  to  the  dear  friends  in  Aungier  Street,  and 
which  show  a heart  that  not  fame,  not  other  and  brighter 
hopes  than  those  of  youth,  could  soil  or  taint. 

Banim’s  first  letter  is  addressed  to  his  mother,  and 
describes  his  mode  of  life  : — 

“ Dublin,  December  23,  1813. 

“My  dearest  Mother, — Your  anxious  love  could  not 
wish  me  better  than  I am,  or  with  better  prospects 
before  me.  I have  the  countenance  of  all,  and  the 
friendship  of  many  of  the  first  artists  and  amateurs  in 
my  profession.  I meet  with  warm  encouragement,  and 
hope  of  success  from  every  one. 

“ If  with  the  assistance  of  heaven,  and  I know  your 
prayers  will  aid  me,  I can  persevere  in  my  studies,  and 
endeavor  to  trace  the  footsteps  of  eminent  painters, 
what  have  I to  fear,  or  you  to  make  you  sorrowful  or 
apprehensive  ? 

“I  am  as  contented  and  happy,  as  any  one  in  my 
position  could  be.  I am  grinding  my  colors  every 
second  day,  from  seven  in  the  morning  until  night ; 
every  intermediate  day  is  spent  in  the  gallery,  and  in 
drawing  from  the  figure.” 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


47 


The  two  following  letters  are  addressed  to  his  father. 
In  the  first  he  writes  of  his  lonely  Christmas  ; in  the 
second  he  tells  of  his  every-day  occupations,  and  in 
the  refusal  of  the  “ nice  blue  coat  ” as  a present,  because 
he  could  himself  afford  to  buy  one,  we  can  trace  the 
spirit  which  he  evinced  when  requiring  repayment  of 
the  sixpence  which  he  had  lent  his  father  ; and  though 
not  quite  sixteen  years  old  when  this  letter  was  written, 
it  proves  that  then,  as  in  later  years,  he  was  ever  anxious 
to  be  the  support  rather  than  the  incumbrance  of  his 
family  : — 


“ Dublin,  December  25,  1813. 

“My  dear  Father, — I write  to  you  on  the  festival  of 
Christmas,  the  first  from  my  birth  that  I have  spent 
from  home. 

“There  is  nothing  in  the  intercourse  with  strangers 
to  recompense  one  for  the  absence  from  our  kindred  : 
but  I must  not  murmur  against  what  cannot  be  avoided. 

“The  festival  of  Christmas  reminds  me  that  I am 
solitary.  There  is  no  equivalent  for  the  peace  and 
blessings  I have  hitherto  enjoyed  at  our  Christmas 
hearth.” 


“ Dublin,  March  23,  1814. 

“My  dear  Father, — It  would  be  the  dearest  wish 
of  my  heart,  could  I have  the  inexpressible  pleasure  of 
embracing  you  all  at  Easter.  Solitary  and  retired  as 
I live,  it  would  indeed  be  a treat  to  my  feelings  : but 
necessity  interferes  to  prevent  this  indulgence.  Sunday 
excepted,  I have  scarcely  a moment  unemployed.  In 
the  morning  early  I attend  my  tuition  : then  either 


48 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


painting  a portrait  at  home,  or  studying  the  antique  in 
the  gallery,  employs  me  until  six  ; my  dinner  is  scarcely 
swallowed,  when  I am  off  again,  either  to  the  figure 
academy,  or  the  anatomical  lectures,  opened  for  the 
benefit  of  artists  by  the  Irish  Institution.  I am  scarcely 
ever  home  again  until  ten,  and  then  generally  fall  asleep 
soon.  Notwithstanding  my  conviction  of  its  impru- 
dence, I am  greatly  tempted  to  yield  to  the  overflowing 
impulses  of  my  heart,  and  anticipate  my  summer  visit 
by  an  Easter  one. 

“ You  state  your  intention,  my  dear  father,  of  sending 
me  a nice  blue  coat.  Providence  has  thrown  a few 
guineas  in  my  way  lately,  and  I have  the  prospect  of  a 
few  more.  Let  me  decline  your  offer,  therefore.  I will 
positively  treat  myself  to  a new  coat  and  other  etceteras, 
the  fruits  of  my  own  earning.” 

Two  years  of  the  dreary  life  here  recorded  passed  by, 
and  at  length  Banim  returned  to  Kilkenny,  intending 
to  commence  life  as  an  artist  and  teacher  of  drawing ; 
and  although  he  had  received  but  two  years’  tuition  in 
his  art,  he  was  fortunate  in  securing  very  satisfactory 
and  encouraging  employment. 

He  was  just  eighteen  years  of  age,  about  the  middle 
height,  and  of  good  figure.  His  face  was  oval,  and 
though  not  handsome,  his  high  broad  forehead,  and  his 
dark-hued  eyes,  teeming  with  life  and  spirit,  saved  him 
from  the  designation — ugly.  And  now  the  common  fate 
was  his.  Tennyson  sings  of  youth — 

“In  the  spring  a young  man’s  fancy  lightly  turns  to 
thoughts  of  love  ; ” — 

and  our  poet-painter  was  no  exception  to  the  rule.  He 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


49 


was  the  admirer  of  every  pretty  girl  in  Kilkenny,  and 
between  rhyming,  painting,  flirting,  and  book-lending, 
his  entire  time  was  fully  occupied. 

One  evening,  whilst  he  was  sitting  at  tea  with  his 
mother,  the  good  woman  abruptly  said  to  him, — 

“John.” 

“Well,  mother?  ” was  the  response. 

“ Whom  do  you  love,  J ohn  ? ” she  continued. 

“Well,  mother,”  he  replied,  “upon  my  wTord  there  are 
so  many  of  them  that  I am  afraid  I can’t  particularise  ; 
but  let  me  see,” — and,  counting  his  fingers,  he  added, 
“there  is  Mary — , and  there’s  Anne — , and  there’s  Kate, 
and  there’s  Jane.” 

“John,  John,”  cried  his  mother,  smiling  at  the  confes- 
sion ; “ you  know  well  that  is  not  the  answer  I taught 
you  to  give  to  the  question — long  ago  you  knew  it  and 
would  say,  ‘ I love  God  above  all  things,  and  my  neigh- 
bor as  myself  for  the  love  of  God.’  I see,  John,  your 
boyish  days  are  over.”  Truly,  the  boyish  days  wrere 
over,  the  catechism  was  forgotten,  self  was  forgotten, 
and  the  dream  of  youth  was  upon  him. 

At  one  of  the  schools  which  he  attended,  as  the 
teacher  of  drawing,  wTas  a young  girl,  named  Anns 

D , a boarder  in  the  establishment,  and  a pupil  of 

Banim’s.  She  was  a fair,  bright-eyed  girl,  in  the  full, 
fresh  beauty  of  seventeen,  artless,  innocent,  and  pure- 
minded.  The  young  teacher — the  poet  and  the  painte;* 
* — forget  the  grave  moral  of  the  history  of  the  tutor 

Abelard  and  the  pupil  Eloise  ; and,  day  by  day,  a deep 

3 


50 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


whole  heart  passion  grew  within  his  breast,  and  each 
attendance  at  the  school  served  but  to  strengthen  his 
affection.  He  dared  not  tell  her  of  his  love  ; but  love, 
w;hen  the  youth  is  only  in  his  nineteenth  year,  and  the 
maiden  in  her  eighteenth,  cannot  long  lie  hidden,  and 
soon  each  read,  in  the  eyes  of  each,  that  tale  of  passion 
which  was  to  end  but  in  the  death  of  one,  in  the  long 
and  lingering  agony  of  the  other. 

When  Banim  found  that  this  girl  loved  him,  he  seemed 
another  being.  He  concealed  his  affection  from  all : he 
told  his  brother  that  his  mornings  were  devoted  to 
sketching  the  landscapes  around  Kilkenny  ; but  these 
early  morning  hours  were  the  trysting  times  when  he 

and  Anne  T> roamed  along  the  quiet  banks  of  the 

Nore,  or  strolled  through  the  fields,  accompanied  by  an 
under  governess,  who  aided  the  young  lovers,  and  de- 
vised means  by  which  the  absence  of  her  charge  might 
escape  detection. 

For  both  it  was  a happy  dream  ; for  them — 

“ Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turn'd  it  in  his  glowing  hands  ; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with 
might ; 

Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  pass’d  in  music  out  of  sight.” 

Mornings  of  love,  days  of  love-musing,  nights  of 
dreaming  love,  rarely  continue  unnoticed  by  those  who 
are  intimate  with  the  lover ; and  Banim’s  brother  having 
discovered  this  secret  of  his  morning’s  walks,  was  made 

his  confidant  in  the  confession,  “ I love  Anne  D as 

boy  never  loved  girl  before.” 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


51 


That  Lis  love  was  true  and  deep  cannot  be  doubted  ; 
and  as  the  expression  of  feeling,  rather  than  as  a proof 
of  his  poetic  ability,  we  insert  the  following  pieces, 
written  at  this  period  : — - 

“ My  Anna  is  tall,  and  my  Anna  is  fair. 

Dark  brown  is  her  eye,  and  jet  black  is  her  hair, — 

She  is  straight  as  the  poplar  that  springs  in  the  dale, 

Her  eye-beam  is  such  as  the  glories  that  sail 
Over  the  bosom  of  midsummer  heaven, 

When  angels  disport  in  the  sunbeam  of  even. 

The  bright  rose  of  summer  indeed  does  not  streak 
With  full  ruddy  blush  the  warm  snow  of  her  cheek  ; 

For  love  thought  it  pity  to  scatter  or  spread 
With  ill-judging  craft  all  his  treasure  of  red, 

But  gave  it  to  glow  in  a spot  so  divine 

That  the  essence  of  all  iu  a kiss  might  be  mine.” 


The  following  is  a scrap  from  a long  effusion  : — - 

“It  is  the  blushing  time  of  roses, 

I feel  the  fragrance  it  discloses  ; 

Love  laughs  before  my  beaming  eye 
Through  grove  and  garden,  earth  and  sky  ; 

In  every  path,  o’er  dale,  o’er  hill, 

I meet  that  babe  of  beauty  still.” 

“ TO  ANNA. 

“ Yes,  Love  hath  lent  his  smile  of  pleasure 
To  gild  the  morning  of  my  days, 

Oh!  every  sod  my  footsteps  measure 
Through  fortune’s  doubtful,  devious  maze — 
Every  path  of  toil  they  press 
That  beam  shall  bless — 

That  holy  beam  shall  brighten  up 
The  foulest  draught  of  sorrow’s  cup— 

That  holy  beam  shall  light  the  shade 
Of  life  when  all  her  fancies  fade, 


52 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BAN1M. 


And  on  the  way,  to  me  so  dark, 

Leading  to  fame’s  magnetic  altar, 

Oh  ! even  there  that  angel  spark 
Shall  brightly  guide  my  ardent  gaze  ; 

My  heart  shall  sparkle  to  a blaze, 

And  never  falter. 

I thank  thee,  high  and  holy  pow’r, 

That  thus  upon  my  natal  hour 
Thy  blessed  bounty  hath  bestowed 
More  than  to  mortal  life  is  owed  ; 

If  thy  dispensing  hand  had  given 
All  other  joy  this  side  of  heaven  ; 

The  monarch’s  crown,  the  hero’s  crest, 

All  honors,  riches,  gems,  the  best, 

And  Anna’s  love  away  the  while, 

I’d  change  them  all  for  Anna’s  smile.” 

BaninTs  nature  was  impetuous,  and,  having  assured 
himself  of  his  mistress’s  affection,  he  resolved  to  wait 
upon  her  father  and  demand  her  hand.  A year  had 
passed  since  he  first  loved  her,  and  he  would  not  be 
satisfied  until  he  called  her  his  wife.  He  was  not  twenty 
years  of  age,  his  profession  was  not  more  than  sufficient 
to  support  him,  his  friends  were  reduced  in  circum- 
stances, owing  to  the  inability  of  some  persons  to  repay 
certain  sums  of*  money  lent  by  old  Michael  Banim  ; but 
all  prudential  considerations  were  despised  by  the  lover, 
and  so  he  went  forth,  accompanied  by  a friend,  to  seek 
the  consent  of  Anne’s  father. 

Anne  D was  the  natural  daughter  of  a gentleman 

residing  in  a neighboring  county.  He  was  a surly,  rude- 
tempered  old  man,  and  replied  to  Banim’s  request  of  his 
daughter’s  hand  with  sneers  and  scoffing.  The  young 
lover  retorted  the  insulting  expressions  used  ; both 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


53 


parties  were  violent,  and  recriminations  were  ended  by 
the  order  of  the  old  man  that  Banim  should  at  once 
leave  the  house.  He  returned  to  Kilkenny,  dispirited 
and  heart-sick  ; he  had  never  permitted  himself  to  con- 
template a rejection  of  his  suit,  and  when  he,  the  same 

evening,  obtained  an  interview  with  Anne  D , it  was 

one  of  tears  and  sorrow — it  was  the  last  time  he  ever 
spoke  to  her,  save  clandestinely. 

The  doors  of  the  school  in  which  Anne  resided  were 
closed  against  him  ; all  communication  was  barred  be- 
tween them,  and  by  stratagem  alone  could  he  tell  her 
how  deeply  and  how  truly  she  was  still  beloved.  All 
means  of  addressing  her  were  tried,  and  those  who 
watched  An.ne  and  her  fellow-pupils  as,  on  Sunday 
evenings,  they  left  the  church,  might  have  observed  a 
figure  clothed  as  a countrywoman,  in  long  grey  cloak 
and  full  deep  hood,  stealing  close  to  Anne’s  side  : this 
was  Banim  disguised  ; and  it  was  on  these  occasions 
that  he  contrived  to  press  his  mistress’s  hand,  whilst 
he  placed  within  it  a poem,  or  a letter,  telling  her  to 
love  and  hope.  In  this  manner,  and  by  transmitting 
notes  in  his  sister’s  school-basket,  he  was  enabled  to 
communicate  with  her. 

Anne’s  father  induced  a female  relative  of  the  girl  to 
call  upon  her  at  the  school,  and  by  a pretended  sym- 
pathy, endeavor  to  discover  if  her  love  for  Banim  were 
real  and  deep.  The  plan  succeeded  ; Anne  told  the 
whole  story  of  her  heart.  It  was  considered  that  ab- 
sence alone  could  cure  her  girlish  folly,  and  her  father 


54 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


arranged  that  she  should  be  secretly  removed  from 
school,  and  placed  in  the  house  of  one  of  her  mother’s 
family.  She  was  removed  ; but  Banim  discovered  the 
day  and  hour  at  which  she  was  to  leave,  and  the  route 
by  which  she  was  to  travel.  He  found  that  the  chaise, 
bearing  Anne  and  her  female  protector,  was  to  pass  by 
his  father’s  door — he  took  his  place  by  the  threshold, 
and  as  the  carriage  rolled  by,  he  rushed,  bare-headed, 
before  the  vehicle  : to  avoid  the  danger  of  overturning 
him,  the  horses  were  suddenly  and  violently  checked, 
Anne  leaned  from  the  window,  pale  and  terrified  and 
sobbing  bitterly ; the  lovers’  eyes  met  but  for  a moment, 
the  carriage  moved  quickly  onward,  and  John  Banim 
never  more,  in  life,  saw  Anne  D . 

He  re-entered  the  house,  and  uttered  no  cry,  but  sat 
in  stony  sorrow.  A small  parcel  wras  placed  in  his  hand, 
it  was  addressed  to  him,  the  hand- writing  was  that  of 
Anne,  he  tore  it  eagerly  open, — it  contained  his  own 
miniature- which  he  had  painted  for  her,  and  which  for 
months  she  had  worn  concealed  in  her  bosom  ; the 
parcel  also  contained  his  letters  and  verses.  He  exam- 
ined the  miniature  closely  ; it  bore  no  secret  line  : he 
pored  over  the  papers  in  hope  that  they  might  conceal 
some  covert  intimation  that  this  return  of  all  his 
offerings  was  not  Anne’s  own  free  act, — but  all  was  as 
he  himself  had  written,  not  one  line  or  word  to  tell  him 
she  was  faithful.  He  paused  a moment  looking  upon 
the  miniature,  and  then,  dashing  it  to  the  ground, 
crushed  it  to  atoms  beneath  his  feet, — tore  the  letters 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


55 


and  verses  into  fragments  ; and  as  he  scattered  them 
away,  as  the  memory  of  all  his  hopes  and  joys  came 
back  upon  him  when  he  thought  of  their  vows  and 
promises,  he  cried,  bitterly  and  fiercely,  “Curse  her! 
curse  her ! to  abandon  me  and  break  my  heart ! ” and 
burst  into  angry  tears. 

No  commiseration  could  soothe  him  ; no  attention 
could  win  a smile,  or  word  of  pleasure  from  his  lips. 
His  constant  complaint  was,  that  Anne  had  abandoned 
him,  although  no  earthly  power  could  induce  him  to 
forget  or  abandon  her.  Now  she  was  false,  false  as  only 
heartless  woman  can  be  ; and  in  his  despair  he  wrote 
such  lines  as  the  following  : — 

u Thou  that  in  youthful  folly’s  bower 
Wouldst  lavish  thus  an  idle  hour  ; 

Thou  that  wouldst  fondly  hope  to  win 
The  love  a woman’s  heart  within — 

Go,  heart  of  hope,  to  pleasure’s  sleep, 

But  let  it  be  nor  long  nor  deep — 

Go,  taste  the  bloom  of  woman’s  lip, 

But  only  taste,  and  lightly  sip — 

Go,  if  it  suit  thy  sparkling  soul, 

On  passion’s  frantic  wave  to  roll : 

Partake  of  ev’ry  boasted  feeling 
Of  all  that’s  worth  a lover’s  stealing  ; 

But  give  thy  lightest  leisure  hour 
Alone  to  love’s  delusive  power  ; 

Pledge  not  thy  faith  a hair  beyond 
The  sigh  of  sense  or  passion  fond. 

Let  not  one  vital  cord  of  thine 
Round  faithless  woman’s  heart  entwine. 

No  youthful  hope  shall  perish  then, 

As  fickle  woman  roams  amain  ; 

No  fainting  pulse,  no  brimming  eye 
Shall  note  the  wanton  trifler  fly  ; 


56 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


No  riven  heart-string  there  shall  break, 

When  woman  spurns  her  bondage  weak  ; 

And  not  a withering  pang  shall  wait 
To  blast  thy  hopes  and  gloom  thy  fate.” 

But  Anne  was  not  faithless,  and  to  the  last  hour  of 
his  life  Banim  regretted  his  doubt  of  her  affection  ; he 
learned  but  too  late  that 

“ Love  is  love  for  evermore.” 

The  house  to  which  Anne  D had  been  removed 

was  situated  about  twenty-five  miles  from  Kilkenny, 
and  the  affection  that  still  lingered  in  Banim’s  heart 
induced  him  to  open  a new  correspondence  with  her. 
He  sent  the  letters  by  trusty  messengers  ; he  knew 
that  they  had  been  deposited  in  places  with  which 
Anne  was  acquainted  ; he  wrote  again  and  again,  in 
all  the  fervor  of  his  earlier  love  : but  to  none  of  his 
letters  was  there  a reply.  Anne  was  not  faithless  ; 
she  received  one  only  letter,  and  that  the  first,  all 
gloomy  and  half  upbraiding  ; she  was  detected  in  the 
act  of  reading  it,  and  the  succeeding  letters  were 
intercepted. 

Anne  made  no  complaint.  She  thought  of  the  pact- 
by  days  of  joy,  of  the  mornings  when,  out  by  the 
sunny  river,  she  had  heard  the  tale  of  love,  as  only 
youth  in  its  spring  can  breathe  it,  whilst  around  the 
path  of  the  poet-painter  and  his  fair  bright  idol, 

“ The  summer  murmur’d  with  her  leafy  lips,” 

and  pining  for  the  loss  of  all  her  heart  held  dear, 
her  cheek  grew  pale,  her  step  lost  all  its  bounding 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


57 


lightness,  her  eyes  shone  with  that  terrible  brilliancy 
which  shows  the  wasting  of  life,  and  then  it  was  plain 
that  the  fiend,  Consumption,  had  seized  her.  She 
never  struggled  against  the  disease  ; she  was  removed 
from  the  school  in  Kilkenny  in  the  month  of  Septem- 
ber, and  whilst  Banim  was  condemning  her  as  a heart- 
less mistress,  she  was  expiring,  with  his  love  the  sole 
treasure  of  her  life  ; and  in  the  November  following  her 
removal  from  school,  a period  of  less  than  two  months, 
Anne  D was  dead. 

Banim  was  informed  of  the  melancholy  catastrophe 
the  day  succeeding  that  of  her  decease  ; and  then 
came  the  full  tide  of  sorrow  upon  his  heart,  for  in 
hearing  she  was  dead  he  heard  also  that  her  love  for 
him  had  been  the  cause  of  all  her  griefs,  and  in  her 
agony  his  name  had  been  the  last  upon  her  lips. 

When  he  discovered  that  she  was  no  more,  he  merely 
said  to  his  brother,  who  was  appalled  by  the  pain 

displayed  in  his  features,  “ Anne  D is  dead  ! ” and 

retiring  to  his  bed-room,  remained  in  solitude  and 
silence. 

He  rose  early  the  following  morning  ; it  was  cold 
November  weather,  the  rain  was  falling,  and  a gloom 
was  in  the  sky  and  upon  the  earth.  Banim  left  his 
home,  wishing  once  more  to  look  upon  the  victim  who 
had  been  so  dear  in  life,  but  who  now,  in  death,  was 
dearer  than  ever.  He  was  too  poor  to  hire  a chaise  ; 
he  borrowed  a horse,  but  he  could  not  endure  the 
slow,  steady  pace  of  the  animal,  and  when  about  a 


58 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


mile  from  Kilkenny  sent  it  back  by  a country  child, 
and  continued  liis  way  on  foot. 

He  never  knew  by  what  route,  or  how  he  traversed 
the  twenty-five  dreary  miles  which  lay  between  him  and 
the  corpse  of  his  beloved,  but  night  had  closed  around 
the  dripping  weary  man  as  he  reached  the  farmhouse 
where  the  body  of  Anne  D lay.  None  of  her  rela- 

tives were  present  as  he  entered,  and  but  few  friends 
sat  around.  He  stood  beside  the  dead  one’s  head,  and 
the  long  black  lashes  of  the  closed  eyes  resting  upon 
the  pallid  cheek,  the  shrunken  features,  and  the  worn 
look  of  her  whom  he  had  once  thought  so  beautiful,  from 
whom  he  had  so  recently  parted  in  all  the  glory  of  her 
youth,  terrified  him,  and  he  gazed  upon  her  but  shed 
no  tear.  His  face  of  agony  attracted  the  attention  of 
those  persons  who  had  gathered  by  the  coffin,  and  as 
he  stood  beside  its  head,  one  of  Anne’s  half-sisters 
recognized  him,  called  him  the  murderer  of  her  sister, 
and  demanded  that  he  should  be  thrust  from  the  room. 

At  first  Banim  felt  indignant  at  this  cruel  conduct, 
but  suddenly  he  thought  that  if  Anne  had  never  loved 
him  she  might  be  then  living  happily  ; had  she  never 
met  him  she  might  be  joyous  and  in  health — but  now 
she  was  a wreck  of  hope,  of  peace,  of  life  ; and  scarcely 
daring  to  look  upon  her,  he  tottered  from  the  room. 
He  had  eaten  nothing  since  the  preceding  day  ; he  felt 
no  hunger,  but  entering  an  out-house,  sank  upon  the 
wet  straw  of  a car-shed,  and  there,  in  a stupor  of  grief, 
continued  until  he  heard  the  funeral  guests  assembling. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


59 


He  rose,  re-entered  the  house,  and  being  permitted  to 
stand  beside  the  coffin,  saw  the  face  of  his  Anne  for 
the  last  time,  as  the  coffin-lid  hid  it  for  ever.  He  fol- 
lowed the  body  to  the  churchyard,  stood  by  as  the  earth 
was  piled  up,  and  when  all  had  departed,  cast  himself 
upon  the  fresh  green  mound  that  marked  the  grave 
of  his  first  love.  He  never  could  recollect  where  the 
night  succeeding  this  day  of  woe  was  passed,  but  the 
following  morning  his  brother  met  him  about  ten  miles 
from  home.  Leaning  upon  the  arm  extended  to  him, 
he  trailed  his  limbs  along  until  he  reached  his  father’s 
house.  With  his  brother’s  help  he  ascended  to  his  room, 
and  though  from  the  time  when  they  had  met  upon 
the  road  no  word  had  been  spoken  by  either,  yet  when 
entering  his  apartment  he  appeared  to  recognize  it  ; the 
feeling  of  consciousness  was  but  momentary,  and  he 
sank  upon  his  bed  powerless  and  senseless,  prostrated 
in  mind  and  body. 

During  the  twelve  months  succeeding  this  day,  Banim 
merely  existed.  The  whole  system  seemed  shattered. 
His  head  ached  so  violently  that,  in  his  paroxysms  of 
pain,  his  body  rocked  with  an  involuntary  motion  so 
violently,  that  as  his  head  rested  upon  his  mother’s 
breast,  it  required  all  the  latter’s  strength  to  curb  the 
volent  swaying  of  the  sufferer.  “ It  seemed,”  he  said, 
“ as  if  the  brain  were  surging  through  the  skull  from 
rear  to  front,  and  from  front  to  rear,  alternately.” 
He  lost  all  anxiety  for  his  profession  or  for  literature, 
no  occupation  could  interest  him,  he  could  rarely  be 


60 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


induced  to  leave  the  house,  and  when  he  did  go  abroad 
he  quickly  became  wearied  ; he  seldom  spoke,  and  thus 
his  first  love  laid  the  seeds  of  that  frightful  suffering 
which,  during  the  greater  portion  of  his  existence,  ren- 
dered him  one  of  the  most  miserable  of  men.  The 
three  nights  of  suffering  and  exposure  to  which  at  Anne 

T> ’s  decease  he  was  subjected,  broke  down  the 

stamina  of  life,  and  left  him,  at  twenty  years  of  age,  a 
victim  to  spinal  disease,  which,  but  a few  years  later, 
reduced  him  to  a crippled  body,  whilst  gifted  with  a 
mind  active  as  ever  genius  possessed  : his  fate  indeed 
was  harder  than  that  of  Tantalus. 

The  first  symptom  of  returning  health  evinced  by 
the  sufferer  was  the  composition  of  some  verses.  They 
show  the  weary  spirit  that  would  free  itself  from  all 
recollections  of  the  past,  and  would — 

“ Pluck  from  the  memory  a rooted  sorrow  ; 

Haze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain.77 

Sorrow,  however,  at  nineteen,  cannot  be  very  deeply 
seated,  and  he  must  be  melodramatic  indeed  who  fan- 
cies that  in  plucking  it  from  his  bosom  his  heart  may 
form  its  root  ; and  thus,  as  time  rolled  on,  Banim 
found  that  the  world  had  its  joys  still,  even  after  all  his 
woes  ; and  so  for  him  once  more  arose  the  bright  blue 
days,— 

“Full  of  the  sun,  loud  with  a thousand  larks.’7 

Then  it  was  that,  as  the  clouds  passed  away,  the 
darkened  spirit  cast  off  its  veil  of  grief,  and  he  wrote 
such  verses  as  these  detached  fragments  : — 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


61 


u I saw  her,  God  of  goodness  great ! 

I saw  her  in  her  winding-sheet  j 
And  I saw  her  mingle  then 
With  her  mother  earth  again, 

I saw  her — and  I could  not  save — 

Sink  into  her  early  grave. 

It  cannot  last.  The  fever  of  affliction 
But  feeds  on  thought.  And  all  the  balm 
Designed  by  preaching  patience  for  the  sufferer’s  pang 
Changes  to  poison  on  his  parched  lip. 

Avoid  me,  Memory,  we  are  friends  no  more. 

It  is  an  awful  hour,  the  midnight  moon 
Looks  from  her  land  of  loneliness  upon  me, 

Yet  in  the  silent  night  I fear  no  foe, 

I fear  no  stalking  spectre  as  I fear  thee,  Memory.77 

We  here  close  the  first  part  of  this  biography  of 
John  Banim.  We  have  told  the  story  of  his  life  to 
his  twenty-first  year.  It  shows  him  to  have  been 
swayed  by  all  the  passions  and  weakness  that  dictate 
the  actions  of  other  men,  but  it  shows  too,  the  energy 
which  marked  his  later  years.  A boy,  he  left  his  home 
for  Dublin  ; two  years  in  the  metropolis  had  not  cor- 
rupted him  : like  Southey  he  was  too  pure  a worship- 
per of  beauty  and  of  goodness  to  be  vicious,  even  if 
faith  and  early  training  had  not  spread  their  shields 
above  him  ; and  so,  a boy,  he  returned  to  his  father’s 
roof. 


CHAPTER  II 


RESTORED  HEALTH — LIFE  IN  KILKENNY REMOVAL  TO  DUBLIN 

ABANDONMENT  OF  ART  AND  ADOPTION  OF  LITERATURE  AS  A 

PROFESSION LIFE  IN  DUBLIN LETTERS OBTAINS  CHARTER 

FOR  ROYAL  IRISH  ACADEMY,  AND  IS  THANKED  BY  VOTE  OF 

IRISH  ARTISTS LETTERS PUBLISHES  THE  CELT’S  PARADISE,” 

AND  DEDICATES  IT  TO  THE  LATE  LORD  CLONCURRY EXTRACTS 

CONTEMPLATES  REMOVING  TO  LONDON LETTERS PLAY  OF 

“ DAMON  AND  PYTHIAS  ” ACTED  AT  COVENT  GARDEN:  ITS  SUC- 
CESS  EXTRACTS LETTERS VISIT  TO  KILKENNY  AFTER  FIRST 

LITERARY  SUCCESS FIRST  IDEA  OF  NOVEL  WRITING PUB- 

LISHES A PAMPHLET  ON  THE  ERECTION  OF  A TESTIMONIAL 

COMMEMORATIVE  OF  THE  VISIT  OF  GEORGE  IV.  TO  IRELAND 

EXTRACTS LETTERS. 

The  Christmas  of  1818  had  passed  before  Banim’s 
health  apparently  recovered  the  shock  which  it  had 
received  during  the  days  and  nights  of  anguish  and 
exposure,  endured  whilst  he  watched  by  the  death  bed 

and  by  the  grave  of  Anne  D . We  have  written 

“ apparently  recovered,”  for,  in  fact,  the  results  of  that 
woful  time  were  the  evils  of  his  after  years,  and  ended 
but  with  his  life. 

With  returning  health  came  all  the  buoyant  spirit 
of  youth  and  hope,  and  Banim  entered  into  all  the 
pleasures  and  convivialities  of  his  native  town.  Those 
who  can  remember  what  country  towns  in  Ireland  were 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


63 


about  six-and-thirty  years  ago,  will  understand  the  dan- 
gerous position  in  which  these  tastes  and  connections 
placed  him  who  exhibited  ability  and  social  powers  of 
even  a lesser  degree  than  those  of  Banim.  He  formed 
no  low,  no  mean,  or  vulgar  acquaintances,  but  in  the 
round  of  pleasure  which  formed  his  chief  solace  he 
found  himself  the  companion  of  those  who  were  his 
superiors  in  birth  and  fortune.  They  were  not  drunk- 
ards, but  they  loved  the  midnight  meeting  around  the 
supper  table  ; as  the  glasses  twinkled  the  fancy  grew 
bright,  quips  and  drollery  gave  a fascinating  charm  to 
each  for  each,  and  Banim  might  truly  apply  to  himself 
a passage  of  Charles  Lamb’s,  “ We  dealt  about  the  wit, 
or  what  passes  for  it,  after  midnight,  jovially.  Of  the 
quality  called  fancy  I certainly  possessed  a larger  share 
than  my  companions  : ” and  thus  he  became  careless  of 
tuitions,  and  ail  but  neglected  his  duty  to  the  few 
schools  and  pupils  who  still  continued  to  employ  him. 
Debts  now  began  to  accumulate  ; credit  failed,  and 
Banim,  disgusted  by  his  course  of  life,  resolved,  after 
a few  months’  experience  of  its  evils,  to  abandon  all  its 
temptations  and  false  pleasures.  This  was  not  difficult ; 
at  all  periods  of  his  existence  he  was  temperate,  and  in 
joining  the  convivial  parties  of  his  fellow  townsmen  he 
sought  only  a relief  in  society  from  the  pains  of  memory 
and  the  woes  of  solitude. 

Although  inattentive  in  these  times  to  professional 
engagements,  he  had  not  been  completely  idle  ; he  had 
painted  a few  portraits,  and  had  become  a contributor 


64 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


to  a local  newspaper,  “ The  Leinster  Gazette,”  of  which 
he  became  the  editor.  This  latter  employment  he  con- 
sidered a very  important  one,  as  it  was  a walk,  how- 
ever humble,  in  the  great  path  of  literature.  It  gave 
him,  he  thought,  a position  as  a literary  character  ; and 
indeed  he  is  not  the  first  distinguished  man  whose 
genius  developed  itself  in  the  columns  of  a provincial 
journal.  Debts  and  difficulties,  however,  gathered  around 
him,  and  with  many  another  man,  he  found  that  small, 
like  great  “ pleasant  vices”  entail  long,  painful,  and 
harassing  repentant  regrets.  Insignificant  as  his  debts 
were  in  amount,  they  formed  a terrible  obstacle  to  the 
peaceful  pursuit  of  his  profession.  He  had  begun  to 
lament  his  five  months  of  dissipation  ; he  was  then  and 
ever  sensitive  in  regard  to  money  matters,  and  thus  he 
became  morbidly  eager  in  his  anxiety  to  discharge  every 
monetary  claim  against  him. 

With  restored  health  he  had  recovered  his  courage 
and  love  of  literature.  He  believed  that  as  an  artist 
he  could  not  succeed  unless  he  devoted  time  to  per- 
fecting his  taste  and  skill,  and  time  he  was  not  satis- 
fied to  spend  in  the  acquisition.  He  had  pleased 
himself  by  his  literary  efforts  published  in  the  local 
journal,  and  he  fancied  that  by  other  and  better  con- 
sidered labors  he  could  please  the  world  of  readers. 
He  was  not  formed  by  nature  to  lag  or  hesitate  when 
he  had  once  formed  a project : he  determined  to  aban- 
don the  profession  of  an  artist  for  that  of  an  author. 
It  was  a poor  chance,  in  truth  ; but  when  did  genius  or 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


65 


courage  (and  what  is  genius  but  the  noblest  courage  ?) 
doubt  ? And  Banim  resolved  to  leave  Kilkenny  and 
try  his  fortune  in  Dublin.  He  knew  that  great  diffi- 
culties should  be  overcome  before  his  merit  could  be 
appreciated  or  even  known  : he  possessed  few  friends 
in  the  city,  and  they  were  chiefly  amongst  the  artists, 
the  late  Thomas  J.  Mulvany  being  the  most  remarkable 
and  most  likely  to  aid  him.  But  these  considerations 
were  unheeded.  He  wished  to  be  out  in  the  great 
world,  amongst  the  clash  and  jarring  of  minds  and 
interests,  where  the  strong,  bold  will  and  the  ready 
mind,  or  the  flashing  wit,  could  win  golden  fame,  and 
hold  it  safe  and  surely.  He  longed  to  be  away  from 
the  scenes  of  his  lost  hopes,  his  past-by  joys,  his  present 
sorrows,  and  he  would  dare  or  seek  difficulties  that  he 
might  find  a greater  glory  in  their  surmounting  ; thus 
resembling  that  bright  image  of  young  genius,  as  Yirgil 
has  described  it  in  the  character  of  Ascanius — 

“ Optat  aprum,  aut  fulvum  descendere  monte  leonem.” 

Early  in  the  year  1820  Banim  left  his  father’s  house 
for  Dublin,  and  from  this  period  we  may  date  his  life 
as  a literary  man.  Mulvany  had  known  him  whilst  he 
was  a pupil  in  the  School  of  Art,  of  the  Boyal  Dublin 
Society,  in  the  year  1813,  and  now  received  him  kindly, 
and  aided  him  by  his  counsel  and  interest. 

At  this  time  the  Dublin  artists  were  endeavoring  to 
obtain  a Charter  of  Incorporation,  and  a Government 
grant  in  aid  of  the  profession  in  Ireland.  Banim  loved 
the  old  memories  of  his  art  pupilage,  and  he  gave  all 


66 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


tlie  assistance  in  his  power  to  strengthen  the  claims 
and  demands  of  its  Irish  members.  At  the  period  of 
which  we  write,  reporting  for  the  public  journals  was 
not  so  highly  valued  as  at  present  ; whilst  “ leaders” 
and  their  writers  were  much  more  important  than  in 
our  day.  Banim  had  become  a contributor  to  two  or 
three  of  the  more  important  papers,  and  he  was  thus 
enabled  to  serve  the  interests  of  his  former  professional 
brethren  through  his  position  on  the  newspaper  press. 
His  services  were  not  denied  by  the  artists,  and  when,  in 
the  year  1820,  the  Charter  of  Incorporation  was  obtained, 
they  presented  him  an  address  and  a considerable  sum 
of  money,  as  a testimony  of  their  appreciation  of  his 
successful  efforts  to  support  their  interests,  and  the 
advancement  of  art  in  Ireland. 

His  life  in  Dublin  was  a hard  and  disheartening 
struggle  wTith  disappointments,  and  his  wants  were 
many,  and  yet  such  as  make  the  poor  proud  man  of 
genius,  who  would  be  successful,  a silent  long-suffering 
martyr.  The  debts  contracted  during  his  wild  days  in 
Kilkenny  were  a source  of  anxiety  from  which  he  could 
not  easily  escape.  He  was  ever  anxious  to  repay  this 
money,  and,  as  we  shall  hereafter  find,  he  set  aside  the 
first  sums  received  from  the  publishers  to  defray  these 
charges.  The  debts,  and  the  thoughts  of  the  times  in 
which  they  were  contracted,  ever  haunted  his  memory 
as  relics  of  a period  of  awful  agony  and  disappointment. 
But  this  desire  to  forget  the  past  extended  but  to  that 
painful  epoch  of  his  unhappy  love  ; whilst  the  thought 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BAN1M. 


67 


of  home,  the  true-hearted  affection  for  all  who  dwelt 
there,  were  as  bright  and  pure  as  in  the  days  of  his 
residence  in  Phibsborough,  when  a student  in  the  art 
school  of  the  Boyal  Dublin  Society.  He  loved  ever  and 
always  the  scenes  of  childhood’s  joys  and  sorrows,  and 
when  he  had  been  some  months  in  Dublin,  wre  find  that 
he  thus  wrote  to  his  brother,  describing  his  feelings 
for  home  : — 


‘•Dublin,  May  10 th,  1820. 

“My  dear  Michael, — The  health  that  I enjoy  is 
wonderful  to  myself, — do  not  be  so  fearful  on  my  ac- 
count. You  that  stay  at  home  and  are  very  happy 
have  many  superfluous  apprehensions  about  a younger 
son  or  brother  who  roves  about  a little.  Be  assured 
of  this,  my  dear  and  only  friends,  almost  the  sole  thing 
that  sends  the  blood  to  my  heart  or  the  tear  to  my.  eye 
is  the  recollection  now  and  then  that  I am  parted  from 
you  ; but  this  gives  me  greater  strength  for  the  strug- 
gle to  get  back, — and  back  I will  return,  if  God  spares 
me  life,  and  we  will  spend  and  end  our  days  together.” 

He  had,  about  the  date  of  this  letter,  begun  to  think 
that  he  possessed  sufficient  ability  to  enable  him  to 
work  his  way  in  the  great  world  of  London.  He  had 
found  that  Dublin  gives  but  small  hope  to  him  who 
depends  on  literature  alone  as  the  means  of  support  ; 
and  though  his  friend  Mulvany,  and  the  late  Joseph 
Kirk,  were  willing  to  aid  him  in  all  his  prospective 
successes,  he  was  dissatisfied  with  himself  and  with  his 
position.  He  was  a poor  man,  but,  like  Griffin,  a bold 


68 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


daring  one,  who  would  not  wait  upon  fortune  as  a 
suitor.  He  told  his  brother,  Michael,  that  he  had 
determined  to  seek  his  bread  in  London.  Michael 
remonstrated  ; reminding  him  that  many  men  of  greater 
talent  and  experience  than  he  possessed  had  gone  to 
the  wonderful  city  and  launched  upon  its  vast  troubled 
sea  the  ventures  of  their  lives,  and  that  wreck  and  ruin 
had  been  their  fate,  after  weary  struggles  of  unavailing 
energy,  and  of  unflagging,  patient,  mental  toil. 

But  the  brave  heart,  self-reliant  and  conscious,  would 
not  doubt  of  success,  and  but  rested  until  means  could 
be  secured  to  defray  the  expenses  of  the  journey  and 
outfit.  When  that  true  genius,  Chatterton,  wrote  home 
to  his  only  friend,  his  mother,  that  “ by  abstinence 
and  perseverance  a man  may  accomplish  whatever  he 
pleases  when  great  Samuel  Johnson  came  up  to  town, 
and  learned  gratefully  from  the  Irish  artist  whom  he  has 
called  Ofellus,  in  his  “ Art  of  Living  in  London,”  how 
to  exist  respectably  on  ten-pence  a day  ; when  poor 
Gerald  Griffin,  pure  bright  soul  of  genius,  went  forth, 
a boy,  to  gain  the  fame  for  which  his  breast  so  panted  ; 
not  he,  not  any  one  of  these,  felt  more  deeply  or  more 
truly  the  whole-heart  devotion  to  literature  than  did 
Banim  when  writing  the  following  letter,  in  reply  to 
his  brother’s  cautions  and  warnings.  We  read  in  the 
whole  range  of  literary  biography  nothing  more  pa- 
thetic than  these  words  in  the  succeeding  letter  : “ I 
know  not  how  long  I could  fast  ; even  that  I may  be 
called  on  to  try.  I have  been  the  best  part  of  two  days 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


69 


without  tasting  food,  of  late  ; ” and  then  comes  the  grim 
addition,  “ often  have  I gone  to  whistle  for  my  dinner.” 

The  letter  to  which  we  have  last  referred  is  as 
follows  : — 

Dublin,  May  1 8th,  1820. 

“My  dear  Michael, — You  speak  very  gloomily  on 
the  uncertainty  of  my  means  if  I go  to  London.  Don’t 
let  your  fear  affect  you  so  keenly.  I have  not  found 
a crock  of  gold,  nor  has  a prize  in  the  lottery  turned 
up  for  me  : but  with  heaven’s  help  I shall  not  want 
means.  No  man  of  ordinary  talents  wants  them  in 
London,  with  proper  conduct  and  half  the  introductions 
I hold.  Say  I possess  no  talent, — this  you  will  not 
say,  it  wTould  not  be  what  you  feel.  I have  a conscious- 
ness of  possessing  some  powers  ; and  situated  as  I 
am,  it  is  not  vanity  to  say  so.  I have  health,  hope, 
energy,  and  good  humor,  and  I trust  in  the  Lord  God 
for  the  rest. 

“ I know  not  how  long  I could  fast  ; even  this  I may 
be  called  on  to  try.  I have  been  the  best  part  of  two 
days  without  tasting  food  of  late.  Often  have  I gone 
to  whistle  for  my  dinner,  and  once  I walked  about  the 
town  during  the  night  for  the  want  of  a bed.  I see  you 
start  at  this.  I can  assure  you,  without  affectation,  it 
has  amused  me,  and  I thrive  on  it.  I am  fatter  and 
better  looking  than  when  you  saw  me.  At  the  present 
time  I am  comparatively  rich,  and  go  as  high  as  ten- 
pence  for  my  dinner,  and  a goodly  plate  of  beef  and 
vegetables  it  is.” 

This  sad  letter  is  but  the  plain  statement  of  Banim’s 
condition  in  the  early  period  of  his  connection  with  the 
Dublin  press.  In  addition  to  his  employments  upon  the 


70 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


metropolitan  journals,  he  obtained  some  slight  assist- 
ance to  his  funds  from  occasional  contributions  to  the 
provincial  papers.  He  wrote  some  very  clever,  but 
ephemeral  articles  for  a now  forgotten  paper,  “ The 
Limerick  Evening  Post.”  These  contributions  were  on 
all  subjects  of  the  day,  particularly  theatrical  topics, 
and  bore  the  signature,  A Traveler. 

Amidst  the  toiling  of  his  every-day  life  the  old  love 
for  poetry  and  poetical  composition  was  ardent  and  true, 
as  in  the  time  wdien  he  aspired  to  be  the  “ brother  poet  ” 
of  Moore  ; and  he  devoted  his  leisure  hours  to  compo- 
sition and  construction  of  poems  and  dramas.  He  had 
been  introduced  to  Charles  Philips  ; at  that  period  a 
man  of  note  and  of  rising  fame  in  Ireland.  Philips  had 
just  published  his  poem,  “ The  Emerald  Isle,”  and  his 
“ Specimens  of  Irish  Eloquence  ; ” and  having  obtained 
for  himself  the  reputation  of  taste  and  ability,  was  wil- 
ling to  assist,  by  his  counsel  and  interest,  any  worthy 
literary  man  who  needed  either.  He  found  in  Banim  a 
young  ardent  genius  ; he  examined  some  of  his  poetical 
compositions,  he  advised  and  suggested,  and  his  wishes 
were  acceded  to  most  cheerfully  and  readily.  By 
Philips’s  advice  Banim  abandoned  for  a time  his  proposed 
removal  to  London,  and  applied  himself  closely  to  the 
completion  of  a poem  which  he  had  commenced,  and 
which  he  called  “ Ossian’s  Paradise.”  Philips  showed 
some  portions  of  the  poem  to  Sheil,  and  to  Mr.  William 
Curran,*  and  the  latter  gentleman  having  read  some 


* Now  Ex-Commissioner  of  Insolvents. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


71 


passages  to  the  late  Lord  Cloncurry,  his  Lordship 
expressed  his  willingness,  in  accordance  with  Banim’s 
request,  to  accept  the  dedication  of  the  work.  These, 
however,  were  not  the  only  personages  who  expressed 
opinions  favorable  to  Banim’s  ability.  The  manuscript 
was  shown  to  Sir  Walter,  who,  with  his  never  failing 
kindness  to  young  authors,  read  the  extracts  submitted 
to  him,  and  expressed  his  approbation  of  the  composition. 

Thus  at  length  Banim  seemed  about  to  achieve  that 
position  in  literature  for  which  he  longed  as  eagerly  as 
he  who  cried — 

“ For  poesy  my  heart  and  pulses  beat, 

For  poesy  my  blood  runs  red  and  fleet, 

As  Moses’  serpent  the  Egyptians  swallow’d, 

One  passion  eats  the  rest.” 

His  life  was  now  full  of  hope,  and  he  thus  wrote  to 
his  father  : — 

“ Dublin,  October  12th,  1820. 

“ My  dear  Father, — When  difficulties  pressed  most 
on  me,  I determined  to  wage  war  with  them  manfully  ; 
I called  on  my  own  mind,  and  put  its  friendship  for  me 
to  the  proof.  In  the  midst  of  occasionally  using  my 
pencil,  of  newspaper  scribbling  and  reporting,  and  sur- 
rounded by  privation,  and  almost  every  evil  but  bad 
health,  I manufactured  some  hundreds  of  verses,  with 
notes  appending,  which  I called  ‘ Ossian’s  Paradise.’ 

“ I handed  Ossian’s  Paradise  to  a friend,  an  eminent 
poet,  a celebrated  orator  and  lawyer  ; he  showed  it  to 

a friend  of  his,  a Mr.  C n,  who  introduced  it  to 

Lord  Cloncurry  ; — it  pleased  both.  It  was  subsequently 
submitted  to  the  greatest  writer  of  the  day,  Scott  ; his 


72 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


judgment  was  : — ‘ It  is  a poem  possessing  imagination 
in  a high  degree,  often  much  beauty  of  language,  with 
a considerable  command  of  numbers  and  metre/  This 
opinion  was  accompanied  by  a candid  criticism  on 
particular  portions,  with  a view  to  its  success  when  pub- 
lished. 

“ Ossian’s  Paradise  is  to  be  published  by  Mr.  Warren, 
of  Bond-street,  London.  I am  to  receive  <£20  within  a 
month,  with  fifty  copies  to  dispose  of  on  my  own  account. 
If  it  runs  to  a second  edition,  £10  more  ; these  terms 
my  friend  before  mentioned,  Mr.  Shiel,  thinks  advan- 
tageous. 

“ My  dear  father,  do  not  blame  me  for  not  communi- 
cating this  matter  in  its  progress.  I will  explain  my 
motive.  My  failures  hitherto  had  given  to  all  of  you 
at  home  quite  enough  of  uneasiness,  and  I wished  to 
have  a rational  probability  of  success  in  view  before  I 
should  excite  your  interest  : if  I had  failed,  I had  deter- 
mined to  be  silent  on  the  affair  to  you,  my  mother,  and 
Michael,  and  to  all  the  world  besides. 

“ Do  me  the  favor,  my  dear  Sir,  of  requesting  Michael 
to  read  this  letter  for  my  old  schoolmaster,  Mr.  Bu- 
chanan ; and  fill  your  glass  in  the  evening  to  the  success 
of  Ossian’s  Paradise,  when  you  three  are  seated  round 
the  little  octagon  table  in  your  own  sanctum  sanctorum  ; 
and  my  own  dearest  mother,  perhaps  she  may  have 
cause  to  think  more  respectably  than  was  her  wont  of 
my  rhyming  propensities.” 

These  were  the  real  truths  of  his  position  and  hopes, 
and  to  some  cautions  of  his  brother,  Michael,  against 
indulging  in  too  sanguine  expectations  of  success,  he 
thus  replies  : — 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


73 


“Dublin,  October  17/4,  1820. 

“ My  dear  Brother, — I am  not  erecting  a structure 
on  the  doubtful  success  of  Ossian’s  Paradise. 

“ The  panting  desire  for  fame  is  corrected,  I will  not 
say  extinguished  in  me.  I have  before  now  allowed 
the  vivacity  of  hope,  or  the  restlessness  of  suspense,  to 
torture  and  distract  me  ; but  this  shall  not  be  again. 
I have  held  out  my  hand  to  grasp  my  object  over  and 
over  : I have  never  yet  touched  it.  Disappointment 
with  me  became  as  systematically  attendant  on  exertion, 
as  shadow  upon  substance  ; so  much  so,  that  I could 
not  get  a glimpse  of  the  one  without  looking  hard  for 
the  other ; so  I will  not  reckon  on  success  in  this  instance 
beforehand. 

“X  will  tell  you  what  X intend  doing.  I am  strongly 
encouraged,  by  persons  whose  judgment  I ought  to 
respect,  to  prepare  a second  poem.  I regard  the 
present  as  an  opportunity  not  to  be  neglected,  and  I 
am,  and  will  continue  to  be,  at  work  accordingly.  Of 
course,  I give  up  for  the  present  my  journey  to  London. 

“While  I occupy  myself  with  this  second  poem,  I 
have  to  make  out  £1  per  week  ; every  shilling  of  Ossian’s 
money  being  destined  to  liquidate  my  debts,  as  far  as 
it  will  go.” 

The  reply  to  this  letter  was  satisfactory ; and  in  a 
subsequent  one  he  thus  explains  why  he  has  resolved 
to  become  an  author,  and  why  he  has  selected  literature 
as  a means  of  placing  himself  in  a position  of  compara- 
tive independence,  at  least,  of  his  creditors  : — 

“Dublin,  October  27/4, 1820. 

“My  dear  Michael, — You  are  quite  right  in  supposing 
I do  not  calculate  at  present  with  a view  to  the  remote 

4 


74 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


future  ; in  fact,  my  dear  brother,  you  will  see  I cannot 
do  so.  My  only  speculation  just  now  is,  and  ought  to 
be,  the  payment  of  the  last  shilling  I owe  ; and  this 
must  be  done  by  any  means  that  are  the  readiest,  and 
are  honorable.  But  what  are  readiest  means  ? I see 
none,  I am  unconscious  of  any  other  within  my  reach, 
but  the  pen.  This  may  be  a fallacious  assistant,  most 
probably  so.  But  I am  rationally  encouraged,  so  far 
at  least  as  to  make  indifference  to  the  opportunity 
criminal.” 

Like  Hazlitt,  Banim  had  now  finally,  at  the  prompting 
of  genius,  relinquished  the  brush  for  the  pen,  and  some 
month’s  before  Ossian’s  Paradise  appeared,  he  com- 
menced the  composition  of  a second  poem.  With  the 
old  love  of  home  still,  as  ever,  around  his  heart,  he  thus 
writes  to  his  father,  and  the  mingling  of  poetry  and 
clothes  reminds  one  of  Moore’s  early  London  letters. 
He  writes  : — 


“ Dublin,  November  30 th,  1820. 

“ My  dear  Father, — I am  employed  for  another  and 
larger  work,  which,  in  case  of  the  success  of  the  present, 
Mr.  Warren  promises  to  give  me  a fair  price  for.  I am 
not  flattered  into  anything  like  sanguine  hope.  I will 
continue  to  do  my  best : if  I succeed,  I will  thank  God  ; 
if  I fail,  it  may  be  for  the  better,  and  I will  thank  Him 
then  also. 

“In  remembering  me  to  my  dearest  mother  and  to 
Joanna,  say  that  I thank  them  for  their  present  ; they 
have  knitted  me  a fine  lot  of  stockings  indeed, — they 
fit  me  excellently  well,  and  to  all  appearance  they  are 
everlasting.” 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


75 


He  had,  whilst  dwelling  in  his  country  home,  formed 
the  usual  ideal  of  a poet,  and  fancied  that  genius  was 
all  inspiration,  that  poetry  sprang  up,  spontaneous, 
from  the  brain,  requiring  little  care  or  culture.  His 
ideal  had  been  the  conventional  one  of  those  who  con- 
tribute to  the  “ Poet’s  Corner”  of  provincial  newspapers  ; 
but  a few  months  spent  in  the  world  and  amongst  books, 
taught  him,  that  poetry,  like  every  other  pursuit  of 
mankind,  requires  patient,  thoughtful  application  ; and 
that  he  who  would 

“ Fling  a poem,  like  a comet,  out,” 

must  be  careful  lest  his  planet  flame  but  as  a fire-work 
meteor.  We  shall  hereafter  find  how  anxiously  he  had 
considered  the  materials  by  which  a novel  can  and  should 
be  formed.  In  the  following  letter  he  half  gravely, 
half  humorously,  describes  the  qualities  requisite  to 
constitute  the  poet  and  the  philosopher.  The  letter  is 
addressed  to  Michael  Banim  : — 

“ Dublin,  December  2 8th,  1820. 

“ My  dear  Michael, — Poetry  is  a different  thing  alto- 
gether from  what  I considered  it  to  be  some  time  ago. 
A good  poem  is  not  the  fire  flash  of  inspiration,  it  is 
rather  the  steady  sober  light  of  a large  pile  of  solid, 
inflammable  materials,  first  collected  with  choice  and 
patience,  and  then  fired  with  a steady  and  skilful  hand. 
From  what  you  recollect  of  my  verbose  effusions,  you 
will  judge  how  little  I knew  of  the  craft. 

“ You  confound  the  poet  and  the  philosopher  ; they 
are  different  beings. 


76 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


RECEIPT  TO  MAKE  A PHILOSOPHER. 

“ To  make  a philosopher,  take  a subdued  and  austere 
understanding,  a knowledge  of  all  the  theories  and  facts 
on  all  the  subjects,  things,  systems,  matters,  and  essences 
in  the  world  ; and  over,  and  under,  and  round  about 
the  world  ; in  the  body  of  man  ; in  the  mind,  soul, 
spirit,  and  heart  of  man  ; in  his  brain,  and  in  his  mo- 
tions, actions  and  formations — of  all  compounds,  simples, 
and  intelligences  in  the  air,  sky,  and  space  above  the 
earth,  and  in  the  waters  under  the  earth,  and  in  the 
eternities  above  the  air,  sky  and  space,  or  below  the 
waters. 

“ Take  a consummate  and  intimate  acquaintance  with 
all  the  histories  of  all  the  nations  that  have  ever  existed 
and  do  exist  ; of  all  the  languages  ever  spoken  by 
man,  in  every  age  and  nation  ; accompany  these  mere 
acquirements,  with  an  understanding  prepared  to  appre- 
ciate— a judgment  capable  of  enumerating,  arranging, 
comparing,  discriminating,  combining,  separating,  and 
deducing.  To  generate  and  mature  your  accompani- 
ments, keep  the  mind,  for  God  knows  how  long  before, 
exclusively  exercised  in  the  most  rigid,  practical,  and 
matter-of-fact  habits,  and  this  done,  you  have  your  phi- 
losopher. Now  for — 

“ A RECEIPT  TO  MAKE  A POET. 

“Let  the  mind,  by  early  practice  and  associations, 
attain,  first,  a quick  susceptibility  of  the  beauties  of 
nature  in  her  material  works  and  in  her  immaterial 
complex  operations  ; in  the  heart  and  passion  of  man, 
as  produced  by  extrinsic  circumstances.  Keep  the 
fancy  and  imagination  always  up,  always  ready  to  be 
fixed  by  the  slightest  touch  from  a beautiful  scene,  a 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


77 


pathetic  expression  of  feeling,  an  impressive  situation, 
an  heroic  character,  or  a romantic  association.  Let 
the  individual  in  preparation  feel  strongly  that  trees, 
rocks,  flowers,  and  sky  and  water  are  beautiful  f but 
you  need  not  teach  him  why,  and  by  what  combined 
operations  and  remote  contingencies,  they  are  so. 
Let  him  feel  the  effect ; be  not  anxious  he  should 
understand  the  cause.  Thus  qualified  to  receive  his 
assorted  materials,  next  cultivate  his  taste  on  the  best 
poetical  models  ; thus  he  may  learn  how  to  select, 
refuse,  and  combine.  After  this,  initiate  him  into  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  rhetoric,  that  he  may  acquire 
the  simplest  and  shortest  way  of  expressing  his 
feelings.  All  this  done,  shake  him  well,  and  con- 
tinue to  shake  him,  that  the  proper  ferment  and 
excitation  may  always  be  kept  up.  And  here  is  your 
poet. 

“ N.  B. — If  you  give  him  his  meals  regularly,  he  will 
become  indolent  and  dull. 

“ If  the  understanding  be  exclusively  cultivated,  can 
the  imagination  soar  ? The  poet  and  the  philosopher 
are  necessarily  dissimilar  creatures.  Perhaps  a little, 
only  a little,  of  the  one  mingled  with  the  composition 
of  the  other,  might  make  both  of  them  the  more  per- 
fect. In  building  his  structure,  the  philosopher  must 
use  the  square  and  compass,  the  proper  order  of 
architecture  must  be  observed  throughout  ; and  from 
the  quoin  stone  to  the  pinnacle,  every  thing  must  be 
uniform,  and  solid,  and  infrangible. 

“ With  the  poet  originality  must  stand  for  method ; 
diversity  for  order. — And  throughout  the  whole  of  his 
fairy  palace,  inside  and  outside,  the  line  of  beauty 
must  play  and  curve  with  easy  and  unaffected  grace  and 
vivacity.” 


78 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


Our  poet  was  now  happy  in  liis  rational  hope  of  success; 
the  poem,  however,  did  not  appear  until  the  month  of 
February,  1821.  Some  short  time  previous  to  the  period 
of  its  publication,  Banim,  by,  we  believe,  Shed’s  advice, 
altered  the  proposed  title  from  “ Ossian’s  Paradise,” 
to  “ The  Celt’s  Paradise,”  and  under  the  latter  title  the 
poem  was  issued.  The  dedication  was  as  follows  : — 
“ To  the  Bight  Hon.  Lord  Cloncurry ; as  a small  Tribute 
of  the  Author’s  Admiration  of  his  Lordship’s  Public 
Spirit  and  Love  of  Country,  the  following  Poem  is  most 
Bespectfully  Inscribed.” 

This  poem  is  now  all  but  unknown,  and  a copy  is 
rarely  to  be  found,  even  at  the  book  stands,  or  liter- 
ary auctions.  Yet  it  possesses  passages  of  considerable 
poetic  vigor,  and  of  great  beauty.  Saint  Patrick  and 
Ossian  the  bard,  are  represented  as  discoursing  chiefly 
on  subjects  of  Irish  mythology,  and  the  latter  thus 
describes  the  Celt’s  Paradise  : — 

“ The  summer  there 
Is  cloudless,  calm,  and  ever  fair. 

1 saw  it  once  ! my  waking  blood 
At  that  one  thought  rolls  back  the  flood^ 

Of  age  and  sorrow,  and  swells  up 
Like  old  wine  sparkling  o’er  its  cup. 

I’ll  tell  thee  of  the  time  I spent 
Beneath  that  cloudless  firmament, 

And  thou  shalt  judge  if  aught  could  be 
So  pure  a Paradise  to  me, 

If  by  my  own  frail  spirit  led 
Its  smile  I had  not  forfeited. 

Give  me  the  old  Clarshech  I hung 
On  my  loved  tree,  so  long  unstrung, 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


79 


E'en  to  its  master's  measure  free, 

It  may  refuse  its  minstrelsy  : 

But  give  it — and  the  song  tho’  cold 
May  kindle  at  a thought  of  old, 

Of  younger  days — and  now  and  then 
It  may  be  strong  and  bright  again. 

Hear  a song  of  age’s  daring, 

The  sighings  of  the  harp  of  Erin ! 

When  thou,  the  warbler  of  the  West, 

Wakest  from  thy  long,  long  rest ! 

In  this  Paradise  the  highest  place  is  thus  assigned  to 
the  patriot,  and  patriot  poet : 

“ All  were  happy ; but  some  felt 
A holier  joy,  and  others  dwelt 
In  higher  glory.  I saw  one 
Who,  for  the  good  deeds  he  had  done 
On  earth,  was  here  a worshipped  king, 

Triumphant  o’er  all  suffering. 

On  the  utmost  verge  of  his  own  shore, 

One  foot  amid  the  breakers’  roar, 

Another  on  the  rocky  strand, 

He  met  the  invading  foe, — his  hand 
Grasped  its  good  sword.  He  was  alone 
And  they  were  thousands  ; and  when  flown 
His  strength  at  last,  he  could  but  throw 
Between  his  country  and  the  foe 
His  heart, — aud,  through  it  bid  them  smite 
At  hers. 

He  fell,  but  in  the  light 
Of  Paradise  the  hero's  deed 
Found  fittest  eulogy  and  meed  ; 

The  gaping  death-gash  on  his  side 
Was  turned  to  glory  ; far  and  wide, 

As  a bright  star,  it  beamed  ; and  he 
Walked  on  in  immortality, 

Worshipped  and  wondered  at ; the  brave, 

Unconscious,  to  his  virtue  gave 
Honor  and  fame  and  praise, — the  old 


80 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


Blessed  him  as  he  passed  by,  and  told 
His  name  in  reverence. 

And  thousands  rushed, 

Forgetful  of  themselves,  to  gaze, 

And  give,  in  looking,  their  heart's  praise 
To  him,  of  heroes  the  highest  and  best, 

Whose  death-wound  was  turned  to  a star  on  his  breast. 
"With  him  walked  one  in  converse  high, 

Music  and  song 

At  his  birth  informed  his  tongue. 

And  fired  his  soul ; and  with  them  came 
The  throb  for  freedom  ; but  the  name 
Of  his  own  land  had  passed  away, 

And  fettered  amid  her  waves  she  lay, 

Like  a strong  man  on  his  hill, — the  bard 
In  all  her  breezes  only  heard 
The  sigh  of  her  past  fame, — no  strain 
Rose  o'er  her  desolated  plain 
To  mourn  her  glories  gone,  or  call 
The  blush  of  shame  for  her  early  fall 
Up  to  her  cold  destroyer's  cheek, 

Or  on  his  heart  in  thunders  break, 

But  the  bard  caught  up  his  harp,  and  woke 
His  Country's  Song  ! and  as  it  broke 
Forth  in  its  pride,  unmoved  he  met 
From  despot  tongues  their  chide  or  threat, 

Their  lordly  frown  or  luring  smile, 

That  strove  to  silence,  or  beguile 
To  silence,  a song  so  high  and  bold, 

So  true  and  fearless  ; for  it  told 
Her  tale  in  every  strain  ! The  wrong 
And  outrage  she  had  suffered  long 
V/ent  forth  among  the  nations  ; till 
The  eyes  of  men  began  to  fill 
With  sorrow  for  her  sorrows,  and 
Even  in  that  cold  and  careless  land 
That  wrought  her  woe,  one  manly  sigh 
Was  heard  at  last  in  sympathy 
With  all  her  sufferings  ; and  for  this 
Thro?  our  world  of  light  and  bliss 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


81 


He  walked  immortal,  side  by  side 
With  him,  the  hero,  who  had  died 
The  highest  death  a man  can  die 
For  his  native  land  and  her  liberty  ! 

And  equal  reverence  to  the  bard 
All  creatures  gave  ; and  his  reward 
Was  equal  glory, — a blessed  song 
Went  with  them  as  they  passed  along  ; 

It  was  over  and  round  them  on  their  way, 

And  ever  it  said  through  the  cloudless  day, 

‘ Joy  to  the  hero  who  dared  and  died 

For  his  country’s  honor,  and  fame,  and  pride  ; 

And  joy  to  the  bard  whose  song  brought  fame 
And  pride  to  his  fallen  country’s  name ! ” 

The  “ Celt's  Paradise  ” has  its  Eve,  a thing  of  aerial 
beauty,  “ who  moved  in  light  of  her  own  making.”  Had 
“ The  Loves  of  the  Angels,”  or  “ Heaven  and  Earth,” 
been  published  before  the  appearance  of  Banim’s  poem, 
he  could  not  escape  the  charge  of  plagiarism,  but  as 
“ The  Celt’s  Paradise  ” was  issued  some  months  before 
these  works,  the  coincidence  is  less  striking  than  that 
which  so  plainly  appears  between  these  two  fine  com- 
positions. 

Ossian  thus  describes  the  first  appearance  of  the  fair 
spirit : — 

“ I sat  in  the  tall  tree’s  trembling  shade, 

And  the  moss  of  its  trunk  my  pillow  made. 

My  eyes  could  not  their  watching  keep, 

My  soul  was  sinking  in  its  sleep, 

And  wild  and  wavering  thoughts  came  on. 

Of  deeds  imagined,  actions  done, 

And  vain  hopes  mingling  with  the  true, 

And  real  things  a man  may  do. 

A sight  came  o’er  me  soft  and  warm  ! 

I started — but  nor  shade  nor  form, 


82 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


Appeared  thro’  half-seen  gloom  around, 

To  utter  such  a silver  sound. 

It  might  be  the  sob  of  the  summer  air. 

Which  glowed  so  rich  and  sultry  there — 

Again  I slumbered — again  the  sigh 
Of  woman’s  fondness  fluttered  nigh — ■ 

And  while  I listened,  ggjtle  lips, 

Gently  met  mine — and,  touched,  and  trembled, — 

As  if  beneath  the  moon’s  eclipse 
Alone,  love’s  feeling  long  dissembled, 

Alight  dare  to  own  in  bashful  kisses. 

Its  maiden  flame  and  modest  blisses. 

Fondly  I raised  my  arms  and  prest, — 

They  closed  upon  my  lonely  breast. 

Back  from  their  kiss  the  young  lips  started, 

Sighed  one  rich  sigh — and  touched  and  parted — • 

I thought  of  the  huntress  young  and  fair, 

Whose  gifted  glance  had  left  me  there. 

And  I said  in  the  strength  of  my  young  heart’s  sigh, 
While  the  tear  of  passion  brimmed  mine  eye, — 

‘ Lady  of  Kisses  ! — Lip  of  love  ! — 

From  the  air  around  or  sky  above, 

Come  and  bless  my  desolate  arms 
With  the  richness  of  thy  charms.” 

The  charms  of  his  spirit-mistress  are  thus  described, 
but  she  seems  to  possess  too  largely  the  graces  of  a 
houri  : — 

“ And  shining  and  soft  was  her  virgin  form, 

In  full  blown  beauty  wild  and  warm ! 

I know  not  if  aught  of  earthly  blood 
Mingled  with  the  magic  flood, 

That  fed  her  veins — but  you  might  see 
A rich  vein  wandering  sportively, 

Beneath  the  bright  transparent  skin, 

That  kept  its  sparkling  essence  in. 

’Twas  an  earthly  shape,  but  polish’d  too  high 
For  an  earthly  touch  or  an  earthly  eye — 

’Twas  an  earthly  shape  ! — What  else  could  be 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


83 


Moulded  or  made  to  rapture  me? 

What  other  form  could  loveliness  take, 

To  bid  my  doating  eye-balls  ache, 

And  boil  my  blood  and  fire  my  brain 
In  agonies  of  blissful  pain  ! — 

Nay,  Saint,  I pass  thy  word  of  scorn — 

Thyself  hath  sung  this  very  morn 
Of  beautiful  and  blushing  things, 

With  golden  hair  and  snowy  wings, 

Fair  beyond  minstrel’s  fancyings, 

Who,  moulded  like  to  forms  of  earth, 

Even  in  thy  own  heaven  have  birth, 

Tho’  basking  in  such  holy  light, 

Hath  made  them  look  more  soft  and  white — 

I tell  thee  there  she  sat  with  me, 

Fairer  than  earthly  woman  may  be — 

And  she  floated  before  my  fainting  glance, 

Like  the  shapes  of  air  that  softly  dance 
Round  the  glorious  evening  sun, 

In  the  joy  that  his  daily  task  is  done. 

Her  eye  was  large  and  soft  and  dark, 

Floating  in  fondness — often  a spark 
Of  mild  and  chastened  light  shone  through, 

And  it  was  even  as  a drop  of  dew 
Half  seen  within  a darkened  bower, 

In  the  morning  misty  hour, 

And  you  might  know  that  underneath 
All  of  her  that  did  look  or  breathe, 

There  was  a spirit  pure  and  chaste, 

As  ice  upon  the  unsunned  waste, 

Or  silver  waters  under  ground, 

That  the  searching  day  has  never  found.' ” 

The  following  lines,  descriptive  of  the  lovers’  life  in 
Paradise,  are  very  musical  and  fanciful : — 

" Or  we  wandered  among  shining  streams, 

That  like  the  bard’s  delicious  dreams, 

Ever  flow  thro’  beds  of  flowers, 

And  golden  vales,  and  blushing  bowers. 


81 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BAN1M, 


And  all  in  playfulness  we  gaze, 

With  sportive  and  well  feigned  amaze 
On  the  water — and  start,  and  blush 
To  see  ourselves  there,  and  we  rush 
And  plunge  together,  as  if  to  save 
Each  other  from  that  innocent  wave, 

Then  with  it  go  and  glide  along, 

In  echoing  laughter,  mirth,  and  song. 

Or  alone  we  sat  by  the  foamy  fountain, 

In  the  solitude  of  the  silent  mountain, 

And  I plucked  a water-flower  from  its  flow, 

And  wreathed  it  with  leaves  on  the  mountain  that  grow. 
And  when  on  her  head  it  was  a crown 
At  her  feet  I knelt  me  down, 

And  called  her  the  lady  and  the  queen 
Of  that  wild  and  desolate  scene. 

Or  often — for  our  pure  nature  gave 
That  triumph  o’er  the  gloomy  grave — 

Often  our  spirits  winged  away, 

Disembodied  through  the  day, 

And  into  aught  they  would  possess, 

Breathed  themselves  in  gentleness  ; 

And  so  became  the  breeze  or  dew, 

Or  shrub,  or  flower  of  any  hue. 

“ Then  sometimes  my  love  was  the  tall  young  tree, 
That  grows  on  the  mountain  lonelily, 

And  I was  the  wooing  eglantine, 

Around  her  slender  shape  to  twine, 

And  climb  till  I kissed  the  topmost  bough, 

That  blossomed  on  her  fragrant  brow  ; 

Or  she  was  the  softly  opening  flower, 

Among  a thousand  in  her  bower, 

And  I was  the  bee  that  passed  all  by, 

’Till  I saw  my  own  flower  blushing  nigh, 

And  then  in  her  bleeding  bosom  I lay, 

And  sipt  its  sweets  and  flew  away. 

Or  still  she  was  that  rose,  and  I 
Came  down  as  a soft  wind  from  the  sky, 

And  sadly  I sighed  thro’  fields  and  bowers, 

Till  I found  at  last  my  flower  of  flowers, 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


85 


And  then  beneath  her  folds  I crept, 

And  there  in  perfumed  sweetness  slept. 

Or  a crystal  drop  was  on  her  leaf, 

And  I playfully  called  it  the  tear  of  grief, 

And  then  I was  the  loving  light, 

To  kiss  away  its  essence  bright ! 

Or  she  kept  her  own  immortal  form, 

And  I came  as  the  breezes  wild  and  warm 
Of  which  she  breathed.  I was  a sigh 
Within  her  heart,  alternately 
Coming  and  going,  or  as  she  lay 
Reclining,  I stole  in  amorous  play, 

And  fluttered  all  over  her  gentle  frame, 

As  if  to  fan  its  virgin  flame  ! ” 

This  poem,  we  need  scarce  remark,  is  not  at  all  worthy 
of  that  reputation  which  Banim  afterwards  attained  ; 
but  it  exhibits  undoubted  proof  of  poetic  ability,  and  is 
distinguished  by  an  intensity  of  feeling  very  perceptible 
in  his  plays  and  in  his  novel  “ The  Nowlans.” 

The  poem  would  have  reached  a second  edition,  but, 
unfortunately,  Warren,  the  publisher,  became  bankrupt ; 
and  all  Banim’s  bright  hopes  and  expectations  were, 
for  the  time,  crushed. 

He  does  not  seem,  however,  to  have  permitted  this 
disappointment  to  check  his  ardor  in  the  pursuit  of  literary 
fame.  He  had  succeded  in  gaining  a price  (and  not  a low 
one  for  a poet  unknown  to  the  public  and  the  trade)  for 
his  work,  and  he  saw  in  this  success  the  first  dawning 
of  his  future  fame.  He  continued  to  occupy  his  unem- 
ployed hours  in  writing  plays  and  poems.  He  com- 
posed, amid  all  his  wants  and  necessities,  a very  long 
and  elaborate  poem,  and  a tragedy,  entitled  “ Turge- 


86 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


sius  ; ” blit,  as  we  shall  presently  find,  the  latter  was 
rejected  by  the  theatres — the  former  was  condemned  by 
Banim  himself  ; and  both  were  eventually  committed 
to  the  flames. 

He  had  occasionally  his  hours  of  relaxation,  and 
these  were  generally  spent  with  his  friend  Mulvany. 
One  of  their  favorite  amusements  was  to  walk  observ- 
ingly  through  the  streets,  and  guess,  from  the  general 
appearance  of  the  passers  by,  the  trades  to  which 
they  belonged.  Each  of  the  friends  prided  himself  on 
his  discernment ; and  years  afterwards  Banim  used 
to  look  back  to  those  walks  with  all  the  grave  joys  of 
pleasant  memory  ; and  loved  to  tell  how,  when  they 
differed  as  to  the  trade  of  the  passengers  under  discus- 
sion, they  watched  his  features,  endeavoring  to  discover 
if  he  were  good-humored  enough,  to  reply  civilly  to 
such  questions  as,  “ Are  you  a tailor  ? ” or,  “ Are  you  a 
shoemaker  ? ” and  how,  of  twenty  persons  named  tailors 
by  him,  only  two  were  discovered  to  be  of  other  trades. 

His  fortunes  were  now  about  to  brighten  ; and  of  his 
hopes  and  fears,  of  his  studies  and  pursuits,  at  this 
period,  he  gave  the  following  account,  in  a letter 
addressed  to  his  father  : — 

‘•Dublin,  March  10th,  1821. 

“ My  dear  Father, — I have  made  it  a point  not  to 
trouble  you  with  any  of  my  humble  speculations,  until 
they  should  arrive  at  something  of  a reasonable  pros- 
pect of  success  ; therefore  I did  not  write  any  account 
of  the  matter,  which  I now  sit  down  to  detail. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


87 


“ Yon  recollect  my  old  tragedy,  bearing  the  magnilo- 
quent name  of  £ Turgesius,’  which  you  at  home  thought 
so  highly  of,  and  which,  if  you  remember,  Mr.  Buchanan 
pronounced  to  be  c most  honorable  to  him,  as  emanating 
from  a young  gentleman,  while  a pupil  of  his  English^ 
academy.’  Through  a friend,  this  was  forwarded  to 
Mr.  Elliston,  manager  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  by 
whom,  my  friend’s  good  opinion  notwithstanding,  it 
was  rejected,  with  some  softening  praise,  to  be  sure — 
but  rejected  it  was. 

“ After  that,  £ Ossian’s  Paradise,’  (the  title  of  which, 
by  the  way,  I have  changed,  and  now  call  it  £ The  Celt’s 
Paradise’)  occupied  exclusively  my  leisure  hours.  When 
this  was  put  into  train  for  publication,  in  the  end  of 
October,  I sat  down  to  refit  old  £ Turgesius  ’ for  another 
trial — this  took  me  three  weeks  of  what  time  I could 
spare,  and  then,  at  the  instance  of  the  friend  before 
hinted  at,  I sent  him  to  Mr.  Harris,  of  Covent  Garden, 
who  also  returned  it,  with,  to  be  sure,  a polite  note,  but 
still — rejecting  him. 

“ Well,  had  I been  made  for  fretting,  this  might  have 
caused  me  to  fret.  I did  not,  however  : I got  the  man- 
ager’s note  about  7 o’clock  in  the  evening  ; I tied  a cord 
about  the  hopeless  tragedy — all  condemned  criminals 
are  manacled,  you  know — and  I flung  it  into  perpetual 
exile,  into  the  bottom  of  a lumber  box. 

“ Before  I went  to  bed  I made  the  first  arrangement 
for  a new  tragedy  ; Pliny’s  letters  supplied  me  with  the 
raw  material ; his  anecdote  of  Damon  and  Pythias  gave 
me  the  idea  to  be  wrought  out.  The  last  refusal  of  my 
old  play  came  to  hand  in  the  middle  of  December  ; I 
was  then,  and  had  been  for  some  time,  engaged  in  com- 
piling for  a new  poem  : this  employment  I immediately 
set  aside,  and  fell  to  work  on  Damon  and  Pythias. 


88 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


“It  took  me  three  weeks  to  study  and  design  my  sub- 
ject, and  collect  the  necessary  local  knowledge  of  the 
persons  and  of  the  scene  of  action,  and,  in  five  weeks 
after,  I completed  the  first  copy  of  the  play,  which  I 
then  named  ‘ The  Test.’  In  less  than  a fortnight  after 
I put  the  finish  to  it,  and  I have  now  the  pleasure  of 
announcing  to  you  at  home,  who  are  so  anxious  about 
me,  that  I have  received  the  strongest  assurance  of  its 
being  acted  at  Covent  Garden  immediately,  or  soon  after 
Easter. 

“ I am  slow  to  encourage,  in  you  or  myself,  sanguine 
hope  of  success  ; but  a presentiment  which  I cannot 
force  from  me,  says  that  this  play  will  do,  and  produce 
fame  and  more  tangible  good. 

“ It  will  have  the  aid  of  an  actor  who,  in  my  mind  as 
well  as  in  the  estimation  of  all  who  have  seen  him,  is  of 
very  first-rate  eminence — I mean  Macready.* 

“ I should  mention  that  to  Mr.  Sheil  I owe  my  intro- 
duction to  the  theatre,  and  he  has  kindly  undertaken  to 
bestow  on  me  and  my  bantling  all  the  care  and  solicitude 
of  a father.  He  will  assist  in  correcting  and  arranging 
for  the  stage  ; and  this  is  valuable  in  the  extreme,  he 
being  the  most  successful  dramatist  of  the  day. 

“ This  object  being  so  far  accomplished,  I have  now 
turned  again  to  compile  for  my  poem,  and  as  some  of 
the  scenery  and  localities  which  I propose  to  make  use 
of,  are  situate  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  Limerick,  I 
intend,  with  God’s  help,  to  go  down  there  on  Thursday 
evening,  and  remain  for  two  months  : by  that  time  I 
shall  have  made  important  progress  in  the  poem,  and 
the  fate  of  the  play  will  have  been  decided. 


* Macready  knew,  from  the  first  reading  of  the  play,  that  it  was  exactly  suited 
to  his  powers ; and  it  possessed  an  equally  great  attraction  for  him  in  the  fact, 
that  no  female  character  divided  the  interest  of  his  part 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


83 


“ My  dear  mother  will  pray  for  me  ; beg  of  her  to 
have  good  hopes  of  me.  As  to  my  venture,  whether  the 
play  lives  or  dies,  tell  her  I will  persevere,  and  if  God 
blesses  me  with  life  and  health,  I will  succeed  at  last.” 

The  play  here  mentioned  has  been  frequently  called 
the  joint  composition  of  Banim  and  Sheil.  In  the  pre- 
face to  the  original  edition,  Banim  states  that  the  play 
owed  much  to  the  generous  aid  of  Mr.  Sheil ; but  the  aid 
consisted  in  that  very  important  assistance  to  a young 
dramatist — an  introduction  and  recommendation  to  a 
manager.  Sheil  was  a powerful  friend  at  this  period, 
in  a case  requiring  such  help  as  Banim  needed.  His 
own  “ Adelaide/'  “ Bellamira,”  “ Apostate,”  and,  above 
all,  “Evadne,”  had  placed  him  high  in  the  opinion  of 
the  stage  authorities,  and  with  his  recommendation 
Banim  was  enabled  to  catch,  and  by  his  own  genius  to 
keep,  the  attention  of  the  rulers  of  Covent  Garden 
Theatre.  Those  who  knew  Sheil  best  are  able  to  state, 
and  do  state,  that  he  was  at  this  time,  as  at  all  others, 
a fast  and  steady  supporter  of  those  who  possessed 
the  claim  of  merit  or  friendship,  upon  his  services  and 
good  offices. 

“ Damon  and  Pythias  ” was  produced  at  Covent  Gar- 
den Theatre  on  the  28th  day  of  May,  1821,  the  author 
being  in  his  twenty-fourth  year.  It  was  performed  at 
a time  when  the  public  taste  was  somewhat  improved, 
and  when  the  noble  language  of  great  Shakespeare  was 
introduced  once  more  upon  the  stage,  excluding  the 
alterations  of  Tate,  and,  as  Charles  Knight  has  it,  “ the 


90 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANiM. 


joinery  of  Cibber.”  Our  fellow-countryman,  Macready, 
was,  at  that  time,  as  in  later  years,  the  reformer  of  the 
stage  ; and  not  two  months  before  the  representation 
of  “ Damon  and  Pythias,”  he  had,  at  Covent  Garden, 
played  Bichard,  with  “the  original  character  and  lan- 
guage of  Shakespeare,”  to  the  Bichmond  of  Abbott, 
Mrs.  Bunn  being  the  Queen  Margaret,  and  Mrs.  Yining 
the  Lady  Anne.  These  were  rather  favorable  times  in 
which  to  produce  so  grave  and  classical  a drama  as 
Banim’s  ; yet  he  had  great  difficulties  to  surmount,  and 
the  dangers  of  depreciation  by  comparison  were  immi- 
nent. His  play  was  performed  on  the  28th  of  May,  but 
on  the  9th,  “ Borneo  and  Juliet  ” was  played  ; on  the 
11th,  “ The  Provoked  Husband ; ” and  on  the  15th, 
“The  Tempest,”  with  Macready  for  Prospero,  Abbott 
for  Ferdinand,  William  Farren  for  Stephano,  Miss 
Foote  for  Ariel,  and  Miss  Hallande  for  Miranda  ; and 
the  latter  was  repeated  on  the  22d.  “ Damon  and 

Pythias,”  therefore,  was  not  a tragedy  bursting  upon 
the  town  at  a time  when  the  playgoers  were  easily 
overawed  by  the  high-sounding  name  of  Tragedy  ; and 
our  young  author  was  to  depend  for  success  upon  the 
real  merit  of  his  work. 

The  cast  of  the  play  was  as  follows  : — 

Damon Macready. 

Pythias  (in  love  with  Calanthe)  Charles  Kemble. 

Dionysius Abbott. 

Damocles Egerton. 

Nicias  . . (father  to  Pythias)  . Chapman. 

Calanthe  (in  love  with  Pythias)  Miss  Dance. 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


91 


Hermione Miss  Foote. 

Arria Mrs.  Conner. 

Damon’s  Son Master  Morris. 

Philistias Mr.  Jeffries. 

Procles Mr.  Comer. 

Lucullus  ( Damon’s  Freed  Man)  Mr.  Conner. 

The  story  on  which  the  plot  is  founded  is,  as  Banim 
informed  his  father  in  the  letter  last  above  given,  in 
Pliny.  In  Dodsley’s  “ Old  Plays  ” there  is,  however,  a 
play  entitled  “ Damon  and  Pythias,”  which  Banim  may 
have  seen.  The  only  material  alteration  from  either 
play  or  story  in  the  tragedy  is,  that  Banim’s  Damon 
has  only  six  hours  given  him  in  which  he  is  to  visit  and 
bid  a last  farewell  to  his  wife  ; in  the  play  and  story, 
one  friend  is  permitted  to  depart  for  six  months,  the 
other  friend  remaining  as  a hostage.  “ Damon  and 
Pythias  ” was  performed  seven  times  during  the  remain- 
der of  the  season,  which  closed  on  the  7th  of  August. 

This  tragedy  is  quite  neglected  on  the  London  stage, 
but  it  is  occasionally  performed  in  the  Theatre  Koyal, 
Dublin.  Its  original  success  as  a stage  piece  was  due 
to  Sheil’s  advice,  who  kindly  prepared  it  for  green- 
room critics,  and  through  his  judicious  management 
Banim  was  little  vexed  by  those  clippings  and  m ang- 
lings which  so  agonizingly  tortured  the  soul  of  Mr. 
Puff,  when  he  discovered  that  Tilburina’s  “ first  meet- 
ing with  Don  Whiskerandos — his  gallant  behavior  in 
the  sea  fight — and  the  smile  of  the  canary  bird,”  had 
been  cut  out.* 


* See  Appendix  II, 


92 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


The  success  of  the  tragedy  was  the  crowning  glory  of 
Banim’s  hopes  at  this  period.  All  the  London  papers 
were  unanimous  in  its  praise  ; and  referring  to  his  fire- 
work and  other  boyish  failures,  and  slyly  retorting  his 
brother  Michael’s  cautions,  he  wrote  to  the  latter,  an- 
nouncing his  success — “ at  length,  my  dear  Michael,  one 
of  my  sky-rockets  has  gone  off.” 

Macready  and  Charles  Kemble  played  most  glori- 
ously ; it  was  precisely  the  style  of  tragedy  most 
approved  by  Macready — it  possessed  that  isolation  for 
himself  which  rendered  Richelieu  so  marked  a favorite 
with  him,  and  not  less  so  with  the  audiences  ; besides, 
“ Damon  and  Pythias  ” had  no  role  sufficiently  promi- 
nent to  detract  from  the  interest  which  this  great  actor 
desired  his  own  character  should  possess.  Indeed, 
the  only  performer  who  failed  in  the  representation 
of  the  tragedy  was  Miss  Dance,  who  entirely  misunder- 
stood the  conception  of  Calantlie. 

Always  desirous  that  the  dear  ones  at  home  should 
rejoice  and  share  in  the  pleasures  of  his  success,  Banim 
thus  wrote  to  his  father,  and  the  true-hearted  trust  in 
the  toil  of  the  future,  and  the  purest  resolve  to  pay 
the  few — but,  to  him,  great — debts  incurred  in  the  wild 
days,  are  worthy  of  notice  : — 

“ Limerick,  June  3rd,  1821, 
“ My  dear  Father, — If  the  papers  have  not  already 
informed  you  of  the  fact,  this  letter  goes  to  tell  you,  that 
at  length,  thanks  to  God,  a trump  has  turned  up  for  me. 
The  play  has  been  successful.  I have  got  Mr.  Sheil’s 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


93 


letter,  giving  Macready’s  account.  I have  also  read  the 
Courier,  Globe,  and  Morning  Chronicle.  There  is  no 
doubt  of  my  success,  so  again  I am  a free  man,  my 
debts  paid  to  the  last  farthing,  and  I am  in  possession 
once  more  of  my  seat  by  the  old  fireside,  with  my  health 
better  than  ever  it  was  to  fit  me  for  working  on. 

“ The  moment  I receive  even  part  of  the  proceeds,  I 
will  fly  to  Kilkenny  ; that,  however,  may  be  some  weeks. 
Joanna  is  to  weave  a laurel  crown  for  me  ; my  poor 
mother  shall  place  it  on  my  brow,  and  we  shall  be  as 
happy  as  happy  can  be.” 

This  letter,  it  will  be  perceived,  was  written  from  Lim- 
erick. He  had  gone  there  for  the  purpose  of  making 
arrangements  for  a regular  series  of  articles  to  be  con- 
tributed to  “The  Limerick  Evening  Post,”  and,  as  has 
been  already  stated,  to  gather  local  knowledge.  Whilst 
staying  in  Limerick,  and  visiting  the  remarkable  and 
interesting  localities  of  the  city,  Banim  first  discovered 
that  the  stirring  era  of  the  Great  [Revolution,  and  the 
position  of  Ireland  at  that  period,  were  romantic  and 
exciting  in  all  the  glowing  colors  of  that  greatest  of 
romances — historic  fact ; and  many  of  the  incidents 
afterwards  introduced  into  his  novel  “The  Boyne  Water,” 
were  suggested  by  local  association,  and  treasured  in 
his  never  failing  memory.  Having  arranged  his  business 
in  Limerick,  Banim  returned  to  Dublin. 

Upon  arriving  in  town,  he  found  every  party  and 
grade  of  citizens  in  anxious  expectation  of  the  proposed 
visit  of  George  the  Fourth  to  Ireland.  As  all  know,  the 
King  did  then  pay  a visit  to  this  country,  remembered 


91 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


only  as  having  incited  Byron  to  compose  “ The  Irish 
Avatar,”  and  by  the  erection  of  an  unmeaning  granite 
pillar  at  Kingstown.  Banim,  after  the  departure  of  the 
King  for  England,  in  September,  1821,  went,  late  in  the 
same  month,  to  rejoin  the  dear  friends  at  home  ; and 
his  first  act  was  to  pay,  from  the  money  received  for 
“ Damon  and  Pythias,”  the  sums  due  to  the  creditors 
of  former  days. 

This  reunion  was  a happy  one  ; he  did  not,  whilst 
revisiting  old  scenes  and  reviving  old  memories — some 
sad  and  dreary — neglect  the  duties  of  his  self-selected 
profession.  Although  devoted  to  literature,  he  still 
desired  to  see  the  arts  supported  and  encouraged. 
With  all  literary  men  who  have  abandoned  the  pencil 
for  the  pen,  like  Hazlitt  and  Hood  and  Lover,  he  was 
ever  ready  in  assisting  to  secure  the  interests  of  his 
old  associates  and  of  their  profession.  When  Banim 
found  that  the  people  of  Ireland  were  about  to  erect 
a testimonial  to  commemorate  the  Royal  Visit,  (and 
this  project,  as  all  our  projects  of  the  same  kind,  ended 
but  in  failure,)  he  thought  that  the  time  was  suitable 
for  introducing  to  the  public  attention  the  requirements 
of  Art  in  Ireland. 

Accordingly,  whilst  still  in  Kilkenny,  he  commenced 
the  composition  of  a letter  which  he  completed  before 
his  return  to  Dublin.  It  was  published  in  the  month 
of  January,  1822,  by  Milliken.  It  is  in  pamphlet  shape, 
and  extends  to  thirty-two  pages.  The  title-page  is 
as  follows  : “ A Letter  to  the  Committee  appointed  to 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


95 


appropriate  a Fund  for  a National  Testimonial,  Com- 
memorative of  His  Majesty’s  First  Yisit  to  Ireland. 
By  John  Banim,  Esq.;  ” and  the  letter  is  dedicated, 
“ To  those  of  every  Class  who  have  contributed  any  Sum 
towards  the  Erection  of  a National  Testimonial,  Com- 
memorative of  His  Majesty’s  First  Yisit  to  Ireland.” 

He  commences  by  recounting  the  various  plans  pro- 
posed, and  after  showing  that  all  professions,  and  all 
bodies  in  the  city  possess  appropriate  buildings  in  which 
to  assemble — that  all  professions,  save  one,  are  enabled 
to  claim  some  particular  place  of  meeting  as  their  own, 
for  all  their  peculiar  uses  and  purposes — he  demands, 
“ Where  is  your  Temple  of  Art  ? "Where  is  your  Louvre 
or  Somerset  House  ? ” He  then  instances  the  support 
given  to  Art  by  the  great  statesmen  and  rulers  of  other 
nations  ; but,  assuming  that  it  may  be  contended  that 
in  this  country  the  professions  of  painting  and  sculpture 
are  not  of  sufficient  importance  to  justify  the  serious 
contemplation  of  an  outlay  of  the  fund  collected,  in 
erecting  an  Irish  National  Gallery  and  School  of  Art,  he 
writes,  referring  to  the  great  men  who  have  been  the 
patrons  of  Art,  thus  : — 

“ With  the  theorist  who  may  think  the  immortal  names  we  have 
glanced  at  were  or  are  wrong  in  their  large  and  national  estimation 
of  art ; with  the  political  huckster  who  picks  his  steps  through 
every  path  of  cultivated  pursuit,  leaning  on  Adam  Smith  as  on  a 
walking-stick  ; with  him,  to  whose  stunted  apprehension  this  spacious 
and  flowery  world  is  but  a sales-market  or  a counting-house  ; and 
mind  and  talent,  in  all  their  varied  impulses  and  uncontrollable  ten- 
dencies, predoomed  exclusively  to  buy  and  sell,  and  barter  and 
calculate  ; with  him  to  whose  taste  the  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence 


96 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


of  a nation  are  the  most  glorious  acquirements  of  a nation,  and  who  is 
well  prepared  to  ran  us  up  and  down  the  politico-economical  gamut 
on  every  note  and  key  of  1 increase  and  of  supply,’  1 demand  and 
market,’ — with  such  a theorist  we  have  another  appeal.  If  individuals 
of  the  order  we  have  mentioned  be  wrong,  let  us  ascertain  the  sense 
of  the  past  and  present  civilized  world  on  the  importance  of  the  Arts, 
generally. 

“ Egypt  is  a wilderness.  We  only  remember  that  she  was.  But 
of  our  recollections  of  her  old  name,  which  is  the  most  lively — the 
most  interesting  ? which  most  arouses  our  sympathy,  commands  our 
respect,  our  veneration  ? Is  it  our  recollection  of  her  wealth,  her 
grandeur,  her  arms,  her  commerce  ? No  : it  is  her  mind,  and  not 
her  wealth  ; her  philosophy,  and  not  her  arms  ; her  arts,  and  not  her 
commerce,  which  we  remember  with  vivacity,  which  we  admire, 
respect,  emulate.  We  explore  her  waste  places  for  one  atom  of  her 
art  ; if  found,  we  cherish  it  as  a 'saint’s  relic  or  a parent’s  memento, 
and  we  point  to  it  and  say,  ‘ This  is  a part  of  Egypt.’ 

“ Her  foster-child,  Greece — old  Greece,  has  left  us  a greater  variety 
of  models  for  admiration.  Her  laws,  her  arms,  her  poets,  orators, 
heroes,  either  were  more  distinguished,  or  history  has  better  defined 
and  transmitted  them  to  us.  They  invite  our  attention  equally  with 
her  arts — but  only  equally.  With  her  Lycurgus,  her  Homer,  her 
Leonidas,  we  rank  her  Phidias,  her  Praxiteles,  her  Apelles  ; and 
while  we  burn  at  the  recollection  of  her  Marathon  and  Thermopylae, 
we  glow  with  as  pure  an  ardor  over  the  historical  memory  of  her 
pictured  Thunderer,  or  in  the  actual  presence  of  her  Farnese  and 
Apollo.  In  Greece,  a painter*  was  allowed  to  assume  the  regal 
purple  and  golden  crown.  In  Greece,  painters  and  statuaries  were 
eligible  to  the  highest  offices  of  the  state.f  In  Greece,  it  was  the 
law  that  none  but  men  of  noble  birth  should  profess  the  Art  £ Pam- 
philus,  the  master  of  Apelles,  was  a statesman  and  a philosopher  as 
well  as  an  artist.  By  his  influence  the  elementary  principles  of  the 
Art  were  taught  in  the  public  schools  of  Greece,  and  its  acquirement 
associated  with  a liberal  education.  When  Emilius,  after  subduing 
all  Macedonia,  demanded  of  the  Athenians  their  most  renowned 
philosopher  to  educate  his  children,  and  their  best  painter  to  super* 
intend  the  ornaments  for  his  triumph,  the  Athenians  seLt  Metrodorus 

* Apelles. 

t Vide  Mooke — F.  Junius  de  Pictura  veterum. 

+ Pliny. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


97 


to  the  Roman  General,  telling  him,  they  had  provided  in  one  person 
all  he  had  required  of  two.*  Metrodorus  was  an  artist. 

“ From  the  political  structure  of  ancient  Rome,  we  must  not  expect 
much  practical  excellence  in  the  Art.  But  that  which  the  Romans 
either  did  not  or  could  not  rival,  they  knew  how  to  admire  and 
appreciate.  Quinctilian,  Pliny,  Tacitus,  are  often  the  historians  or 
eulogists  of  ancient  Art ; and  Cicero  himself  plucks  from  the  garland 
of  the  graphic  muse  some  of  his  sweetest  flowers  of  exemplification. 

“ The  Augustan  age  of  Britain  does  not  present  a character  which 
stands  more  boldly  forward  than  that  of  Reynolds.  Those  who  do, 
and  those  who  do  not,  understand  his  excellence,  concur  in  esti- 
mating it  as  a high  national  honor  and  ornament.  The  more  than 
Augustan  age  of  Britain,  her  present  age,  displays  a galaxy  of  talent, 
as  various  as  it  is  consummately  excellent.  With  the  senate,  the  field, 
the  cabinet — with  science,  philosophy,  poetry,  great  and  immortal 
names  are  connected.  Yet,  against  any  of  them,  the  names  of  West 
and  Lawrence  may  be  fearlessly  arrayed.  They  stand  as  high  as  any 
in  national  estimation.  They  are  as  often  appealed  to  as  evidence 
of  national  character.  They  are  as  much  the  boast  of  their  country. 
Their  fame  is  as  widely  diffused  through  polite  nations.  They  are 
parallels  to  Britain’s  proudest  names,  and  can  be  produced  to  the 
same  extent. 

“ During  thirty  years,  the  profession  of  arms  would  seem  to  have 
been  the  only  one  pursued  with  enthusiasm  in  France,  yet  her  Arts 
were  not  forgotten.  In  the  hot  career  of  her  unrivalled  success, 
elated  and  laurelled  with  triumph,  France  could  pause,  and  hold  out 
to  Art  the  hand  of  patronage  and  protection.  The  genius  of  victory, 
gathering  up  all  her  trophies,-  often  came  to  the  genius  of  Art,  and 
sued  for  her  graphic  immortality.  Denon,  David,  Le  Fevre,  Le 
Theyre,  were  or  are  contemporaneous  with  every  era  of  thirty  years 
of  political  convulsion  in  France  ; — bright  names,  like  bright  stars, 
have  risen  around  them  in  the  national  horizon,  yet  theirs  have  not 
been  eclipsed. 

“ Italy  has,  at  present,  no  name,  no  character,  but  that  which  her 
Arts  reflect  upon  her.  It  is  the  only  current  which  keeps  her  floating 
up  to  the  level  of  nations.  Italy,  that  was  the  war-school  of  the 
world,  whose  thought  was  intelligence — whose  tongue  was  oratory — 
whose  breath  was  patriotism — whose  sword  was  victory — Italy  is  a 
province — an  abject,  trampled  province.  Her  Tully,  her  Cato,  her 

* Turnbull— Rise  and  Decline  of  Art  in  Ancient  Greece  and  modern  Italy. 

5 


98 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


Scipio,  her  Augustus,  her  Brutus,  are  no  more — Italy  has  only  her 
Canova.” 

And  so  the  life  of  a literary  man  of  our  day  was  en- 
tered upon.  To  Banim,  as  to  all  others,  it  was  the  cold, 
stem  enchantress,  the  demon  Mistress,  that  wins  men’s 
love,  and  then  claims  health,  and  energy,  and  buoyant 
youth’s  bright  blooming  hours,  as  smallest  duties  offered 
in  her  worship — and  thus  Banim,  and  Laman  Blanchard, 
and  Thomas  Hood,  have  each  been  types  of  this  class, 
and  to  each  we  may  apply  these  lines  of  Charles 
Mackay : — 

“ 7Mid  his  writing, 

And  inditing, 

Death  had  beckoned  him  away, 

Ere  the  sentence  he  ha*d  planned 
Found  completion  at  his  hand.” 


CHAPTER  III. 


FIRST  PLAN  OF  “ TALES  BY  THE  0?HARA  FAMILY  ” MICHAEL 

BANIM’s  SHARE  IN  THEM THEIR  DESIGN JOHN  BANIM’s  MAR- 
RIAGE-— REMOVAL  TO  LONDON LETTERS HINTS  TO  NOVELISTS 

• — LITERARY  STRUGGLES — LETTERS ILLNESS LITERARY  EM- 
PLOYMENT  ILLNESS  OF  MRS.  BANIM LOVE  OF  HOME LETTERS 

PLAYS HIS  OPINIONS  OF  LITERACY  MEN ACQUAINTANCE 

WITH  WASHINGTON  IRVING — CONNECTION  WITH  DRURY-LANE 

THEATRE LETTERS PROGRESS  OF  FIRST  SERIES  OF  “TALES 

BY  THE  o’HARA  FAMILY” CONNECTION  WITH  ARNOLD  AND 

THE  ENGLISH  OPERA  HOUSE OPINIONS  OF  KEAN,  MISS  KELLY, 

WASHINGTON  IRVING  AND  OTHERS LETTERS ACQUAINTANCE 

WTTH  GERALD  GRIFFIN  THEIR  FRIENDSHIP MISUNDER- 
STANDING BETWEEN  THEM LETTERS ILLNESS PUBLISHES 

“ REVELATIONS  OF  THE  DEAD-ALIVE  ; ” EXTRACTS OBTAINS 

PUBLISHER  FOR  “ TALES  BY  THE  O HARA  FAMILY  ” LETTERS. 

Whilst  visiting  liis  family,  after  the  production  of 
“Damon  and  Pythias,”  Banim  frequently  wandered 
away  through  the  lovely  scenery  of  the  county  Kilkenny ; 
he  generally  resided,  on  these  occasions,  with  some 
friend  of  his  father,  and  was  always  accompanied  by  his 
brother  Michael.  Few  counties  in  Ireland  can  pre- 
sent scenery  more  varied  or  picturesque  than  Kilkenny. 
Thomastown,  Jerpoint,  and  Kells,  possess  monuments 
of  older  days,  interesting  and  valuable  to  the  antiquary : 
Inistiogue,  and  Woodstock,  once  the  residence  of  the 
authoress  of  “ Psyche,”  are  glowdng  in  all  the  pride  of 


100 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


leafy  loveliness  ; and  every  feature  of  sylvan  beauty  is 
enhanced  by  the  proximity  of  the  bright,  pure,  gentle- 
llowing  Nore.  Banim’s  favorite  spot,  amidst  these  scenes, 
is  thus  described  in  “ The  Fetches  ” : — 

“ It  rises  from  the  edge  of  the  Nore,  at  about  thirteen  miles  from 
Kilkenny,  into  curves  and  slopes,  hills  and  dales,  piles  of  rock,  and 
extensive  spreads  of  level  though  high  ground  ; hills  and  dales  are 
thickly  or  wildly  planted  ; and  mountain  streams,  made  rough  and 
interesting  by  the  stony  impediments  in  their  course,  seek  their  way 
through  the  bending  and  shivered  banks  and  fantastic  woods  ; some- 
times leaping  over  an  unusually  steep  barrier.  The  waterfalls  send 
their  chafings  among  the  woods  and  hollows,  which  on  all  sides,  and 
at  a distance,  reply  ; and  these  voices  of  nature,  together  with  the 
nearly  similar  noise  of  the  rustling  trees,  or  the  crackling  of  their 
knotted  arms  in  the  blast,  are  the  only,  or  the  overmastering  sounds 
that  disturb  the  solitude. 

“ Extrinsic  interest  has  lately  attached  to  this  fine  scenery  on 
account  of  its  having  been  the  last  residence  on  earth  of  a lady  not 
unknown  in  the  literary  world.  In  fact,  the  present  proprietor  is  a 
Mr.  Tighe  ; and  here  the  gentle  author  of  ‘ Psyche,7  that  gentleman’s 
aunt  by  marriage,  breathed  the  last  notes  of  her  femininely  sweet 
song,  and  the  last  breath  of  a life  she  was  almost  too  good  and  pure 
to  have  longer  breathed,  in  a bad  and  gross  world.  Here  she  sang, 
in  sighings  of  the  heart,  her  last  melancholy  farewell  to  the  ‘ Odours 
of  Spring  ; 7 and,  alas,  the  flowers  she  addressed  had  not  wasted  their 
perfume  till  they  were  transplanted  to  her  grave.  A beautiful  girl, 
long  the  humble  protegee  of  the  minstrel,  culled  them  with  her  young 
hands,  and  in  recollection  of  notes  that  the  silent  tongue  had  once 
murmured,  placed  them  on  her  bed  of  clay,  and  thus  in  the  tears  of 
beauty  and  of  youthful  sorrow,  they  were  there  nurtured.  The  grave 
is  one  of  many  in  the  church-yard  of  the  village  that  skirts  the 
domain.  The  river  runs  smoothly  by.  The  ruins  of  an  ancient  abbey 
that  have  been  partially  converted  into  a church,  reverently  throw 
their  mantle  of  tender  shadow  over  it : simple  primroses  and  dasies 
now  blossom  round.  It  is  a place  for  the  grave  of  a poetess. 

“ But  when  Tresham  visited  this  district,  it  had,  for  him,  the  single 
yet  abundant  interest  of  its  own  beauty.  Even  as  he  approached  it, 
the  introductory  scenery  grew  fair  and  enchanting.  The  country  out_ 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


101 


side  of  Kilkenny  was  uniform  ; but  at  last,  from  the  highest  point  of  a 
rough,  mountain-road,  his  eye  was  at  once  flung  over  a semicircular 
extent  of  hill,  dell,  and  mountain,  broken  into  every  desirable  shape 
of  the  picturesque,  and  thrown  and  tossed  about,  as  if  in  the  awful 
sportiveness  of  the  creating  hand.  Hill  bestrode  hill,  the  guardian 
giants  of  the  race  appearing  pale  and  mysterious  in  the  distance  ; 
while  through  the  midst,  in  the  depths  of  a spacious  valley,  the  lady 
Nore  curved  on  her  graceful  course. 

“ It  was  the  first  approach  of  an  unusually  fine  evening  in  Septem- 
ber, and.  the  red  sun,  setting  over  an  extreme  vista  at  Tresham’s  back, 
lackered  all  the  opposite  scene  with  gold : producing,  at  the  same 
time,  those  stretching  shadows  that  make  evening  the  painter’s  best 
hour  for  the  study  of  his  chiaroscuro.  At  every  turn  of  this  road  the 
scene  only  changed  into  another  mode  of  beauty.  From  a nearer 
point  appeared  the  lowly  village  of  Inistiogue ; a few  white  cottages, 
glinting,  like  white  stones,  at  the  bases  and  in  the  mighty  embrace 
of  hills,  richly  planted.  Its  light  and  not  inelegant  bridge  spanned 
the  crystal  river,  groups  and  groups  of  trees  massing  behind  it ; and, 
overall,  the  high  grounds  of  Woodstock  rising  in  continued  and  varie- 
gated foliage.  Tears  of  pleasure  filled  Tresham’s  eyes.  He  felt  it 
was  happiness  to  live  in  so  fair  a world  ; alas  ! he  enjoyed  the  scene 
as  if  he  had  been  doomed  to  enjoy  it.” 

Amidst  these  quiet  haunts  B&nim  loved  to  linger. 
The  first  round  of  life’s  great  ladder  of  fame  was,  he 
fancied,  passed  ; the  jostling  crowd  who,  panting  and 
eager,  thronged  its  foot,  were  no  longer  to  be  feared 
and  day  dreams,  such  as  only  the  young  poet  knows, 
made  bright  and  joyous  the  hopeful  musings  of  that 
autumn  after  he  had  seen  “ one  of  his  sky-rockets  go  off.” 
It  was  not  that  he  felt  unwilling  still  to  labor  and  fast, 
and  watch  and  wait.  Fame  to  him  was  like  that  image 
of  Love  in  “ Gondibert  ” — and  made  all  and  everything 
bright  and  sunny — - 

“ As  if  the  thing  beloved  were  all  a Saint, 

And  every  place  she  entered  were  a shrine.” 


102 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BAN1M. 


The  sad  times  of  walking  about  the  streets  for  lack  of 
lodging — of  “ whistling  for  want  of  a dinner,”  were  past 
— but  the  strong  will,  the  earnest  love  of  literature,  were 
true  and  daring  as  ever.  Plays,  Essays,  Novels,  and 
Poems  were  designed,  and  talked  over  with  Michael, 
who  was  the  confidant  now  as  ever. 

It  is  a well  known  fact,  that  the  genius  which  consti- 
tutes the  Dramatist  is  nearly  akin  to  that  which  forms 
the  Novelist  ; and  in  discussing  the  plans  of  his  future 
life  with  his  brother,  Banim  resolved  to  make  his  next 
venture  as  a writer  of  Irish  fiction.  At  this  period 
(1821)  Miss  Edgeworth  was  in  the  full  possession  of  the 
public  taste  as  the  best  and  only  Irish  novelist.  That 
reputation  which  she  had  obtained  through  the  “ Tales 
of  Fashionable  Life,”  and  through  the  “ Moral  Tales,” 
was  out-topped  by  the  success  of  the  “Essay  on  Dish 
Bulls,”  and  of  “ Castle  Backrent.”  These,  however, 
were  but  the  elegant  drawing-room  portraitures  of 
Irish  life  and  character,  which  might  be  represented  in 
conjunction  with  the  performances  of  that  famous  bear, 
in  “ She  Stoops  to  Conquer,”  who  only  “ danced  to  the 
genteelest  tunes.”  They  wanted  vigor  and  individuality, 
and  were  entirely  deficient  in  that  dramatic  power, 
without  which  any — most  of  all  an  Irish — novel  must 
be  weak.  Admirably  as  Miss  Edgeworth’s  genius  might 
qualify  her  for  the  composition  of  her  inimitable  fictions 
inculcating  moral  precepts  ; excellently  as  she  might 
construct  that  most  difficult  of  literary  labors — a story 
for  children,  or  for  young  people, — she  wanted  many, 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


103 


very  many,  attributes  peculiar  to  that  phase  of  genius 
which  can  obtain,  and  keep  secure,  the  title  of  the  Irish 
novelist.  Banim  knew  well  that  his  countrywoman 
possessed  ability  of  a very  high  and  polished  order ; he 
felt  that  in  entering  upon  the  wTorld  of  literature  as  a 
writer  of  Irish  fiction,  he  should  be  prepared  to  take 
his  place  beside,  if  not  above,  one  who  enjoyed  all  that 
strength  which  is  derived,  in  literary  matters,  from  a pre- 
occupation in  the  public  mind.  He  was  fully  impressed 
with  all  the  might  and  force  of  these  facts,  but  Sir 
Walter  was  his  ideal  of  a National  Novelist ; from  this 
ideal  nothing  can  be  more  dissimilar  than  that  dis- 
coverable in  the  style  and  tone  of  the  works  of  Miss 
Edgeworth.  Banim  had  known  the  people  of  whom 
he  desired  to  write  from  childhood ; he  wished,  like 
Galt,  to  draw  his  scenes  and  plots  from  the  characters 
and  events  furnished  by  the  every  day  world  around 
him.  As  we  shall,  hereafter  in  this  portion  of  his 
biography  learn,  he  thought  that  from  the  body  of  his 
acquaintances  the  “ studies  ” for  many  novels  might  be 
made.  The  scenery  of  his  native  county,  and  various 
portions  of  his  native  city,  were  to  form  his  still  life — 
they  but  required  careful  description  to  become  the 
external  nature  of  his  fictions.  The  human  nature  he 
would  find  in  the  humor,  in  the  pathos,  in  the  tender 
hearts,  or  in  the  wild  fierce  passions  of  the  Irish  peasant. 

In  the  year  1821,  the  Roman  Catholics  were  just 
beginning  to  make  their  chains  “ clank  o’er  their  rags  ; ” 
the  battle  against  Tithes  was  being  fought ; O’Connell 


104 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


liad  not,  as  Sydney  Smith  said,  “ lapsed  ; ” the  reign  of 
Captain  Rock  was  flourishing,  and  all  the  wild  nature 
of  the  people  was  aroused.  Banim’s  feelings  were  in 
unison  with  those  which  actuated  the  great  mass  of 
his  countrymen  ; and  thinking  thus,  Banim  resolved  to 
attempt  that  which  many  others  have  tried  to  accomplish 
— to  raise  the  national  character  in  the  estimation  of 
other  lands,  by  a portrayal  of  the  people  as  they  really 
were  ; but  at  the  same  time  to  vindicate  them  from 
the  charges  of  violence  and  bloodthirstiness,  by  showing, 
in  the  course  of  the  fiction,  the  various  causes  which 
he  supposed  concurred  to  draw  forth  and  foster  these 
evil  qualities.  He  fancied  that  of  the  lawlessness  of  the 
peasant  he  could  discover  the  actuating  principle  in 
that  bitter  thought  of  Shylock,  which  teaches  that  those 
oppressed  will  in  their  turn  oppress  ; and  he  longed 
to  be  their  champion.  The  Irishman  had  been  the 
blunderer  of  the  stage  for  years — his  stupidity  being 
only  equalled  by  his  vulgarity  and  coarseness  : — not 
alone  on  the  stage  was  he  misrepresented,  the  novelists 
had  likewise  held  him  up  to  ridicule,  he  was  their  butt 
or  their  adventurer — a species  of  commingled  “ Gil 
Bias”  and  “Vanillo  Gonzales,”  speaking  a barbarous 
English  with  a most  abominable  brogue — and  in  the 
whole  range  of  the  drama  or  of  fiction,  the  only  mod- 
erately  fair  portraiture,  before  the  appearance  of  the 
“ Tales  by  the  O’Hara  Family,”  of  an  Irishman,  was  to 
be  found  in  the  Sir  Callaghan  O’Brallaghan  of  Macklin’s 
“Love  a la  Mode,”  and  in  the  Sir  Lucius  O’Trigger  of 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


105 


“ The  Rivals.”  Whether  Banim  knew  these  mistakes  of 
former  writers,  or  whether  he  was  incited-  in  this  pro- 
ject by  the  success  of  the  Waverley  Novels,  is  now  a 
question  of  little  moment.  Doubtless  he  knew  that 
half  the  merit  of  Sir  Walter’s  wonderful  fictions  con- 
sisted in  their  nationality,  their  naturalness,  and  their 
truthfulness.  Fielding  and  Smollett  and  Macklin  had 
caricatured  the  Scottish  character  in  precisely  the  same 
manner  as  that  adopted  towards  our  own  countrymen  : 
yet  despite  the  ridicule  of  the  older  wits,  Scottish 
character  will  be  truly  understood  ; and  from  Oldbuck 
and  Dumbiedikes — from  Baillie  Nicol  Jarvie,  “rest  and 
bless  him,”  and  Caleb  Balderston — from  Rob  Roy  and 
Jeanie  Deans — from  all  so  dissimilar,  and  yet  so  Scottish 
in  their  individuality,  the  world  has  learned  to  know 
Scotland  in  her  people.  And  to  accomplish  such  a work 
as  this  for  Ireland,  was  the  great  aim  of  Banim’s  efforts 
— the  object  which  from  this  period,  and  at  all  after 
times,  was  ever  honestly  before  him.  We  are  here 
writing  of  the  reasons  which  induced  him  to  become 
an  Irish  novelist,  and  are  now  but  recording  the  plan 
and  scope  of  the  projected  works, — hereafter  we  shall, 
in  the  proper  place,  discuss  the  various  topics  connected 
with  the  tone  and  style  of  composition  marking  these 
excellent  fictions. 

Much  as  Banim  longed  to  become  the  novelist  of 
Ireland,  yet  knowing  the  great  difficulties  to  be  en- 
countered and  surmounted,  he  hesitated  and  feared 
and  doubted.  Whilst  roaming  through  the  demesne  of 


106 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


Woodstock,  whilst  revelling  mentally  amongst  the 
various  scenes  of  sylvan  loveliness  of  the  landscapes 
around  Inistiogue,  he  spoke  of  all  his  hopes  and  fears 
to  his  brother  Michael.  Michael  was  all  courage  and 
trustful  aspiration.  From  the  period  at  which  he  had 
ceased  to  be  a pupil  of  Mr.  Buchanan’s  “ English 
Academy,”  he  had  been  engaged  in  business  as  an  assist- 
ant to  his  father.  He  had  been,  as  we  have  already 
seen,  the  constant  correspondent  and  adviser  of  John  : 
he  knew  little  of  books,  but  much  of  the  men  who 
formed  the  world  in  which  he  lived.  These  were  pre- 
cisely the  men  who  were  to  make  up  the  characters  of 
John’s  projected  novels.  Michael  urged  his  brother  to 
proceed  : he  knew  nothing  of  the  literary  jealousies, 
the  carping,  the  injustice  which  must  be  encountered 
in  working  one’s  way  to  the  public  eye.  He  believed 
in  John’s  genius  ; he  had  gloried  in  his  progress  ; he 
had  been  his  confidant  in  his  unhappy  first  love  ; he 
had  been  his  nurse  in  the  long  and  terrible  sickness 

succeeding  the  death  of  Anne  D ; and  now  he 

was  his  best  and  truest  friend,  for  he  kept  him  firmly 
fixed  to  one  plan  of  many,  promising  success.  They 
talked  of  plots  and  scenes  ; they  repeated  old  stories, 
and  criticised  their  adaptability  for  the  novel  or  ro- 
mance ; and  thus  Michael  became  confirmed  in  his 
estimate  of  his  brother’s  genius,  and  John  learned  the 
great  advantage  to  be  derived  from  the  judgment,  and 
kind  but  honest  criticism  of  Michael.  And  he  learned 
more  : — in  discussing  their  plans,  and  in  relating  the 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM.  107 

country  tales  that  seemed  most  suited  for  John’s  pur- 
pose, Michael  related  one  particular  story  so  well,  so 
clearly,  so  graphically  and  with  so  genuine  a pathos, 
that  John  determined  upon  venturing  all  his  hopes  of 
success  in  an  Irish  Novel — a novel  to  be  written  in  sepa- 
rate tales — one,  at  least,  of  which  should  be  written  by 
Michael — and  thus,  amid  the  green  fields  of  Inistiogue, 
were  the  “ Tales  by  the  O’Hara  Family  ” planned,  and 
a joint  system  of  writing  commenced,  which  rivalled  in 
popularity  the  “ Canterbury  Tales  ” of  the  sisters  Lee. 
Michael  was  unwilling  to  join  his  brother  in  this  plan  ; 
he  doubted  his  ability ; a book  and  printers  were 
awful  things  in  his  eyes — but  John  insisted — implored  : 
he  would  correct ; he  would  be  in  London,  Michael 
would  serve  him  by  shortening  his  work — the  “ filling- 
stuff  ” of  the  volumes  would  be  supplied  by  Michael’s 
story  if  it  served  no  other  purpose  ; the  story  was  a 
good  one, — he  might  depend  on  John’s  judgment  for  the 
truth  of  the  opinion  ; and  at  length  it  was  agreed  that 
each  should  commence  composing  forthwith,  Michael 
to  write  the  story  he  had  told  to  John,  John  to  prepare 
the  other  tales  necessary  to  complete  the  ordinary  three 
volumes — and  each  was  to  submit  his  work  to  the  judg- 
ment and  correction  of  the  other. 

This  joint  plan  having  been  arranged,  another  joint 
plan  was  to  be  undertaken,  in  which  John  was  to  appear 
as  chief  actor.  In  his  wanderings  around  the  neigh- 
borhood of  luistiogue  he  had  selected,  as  his  chief  rest- 
ing place,  the  house  of  John  Ruth  of  Cappagh,  a very 


108 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


old  and  steady  friend  of  his  father.  John  Ruth  was 
what  is,  or  used  to  be,  called  a “ gentleman  farmer”; 
one  of  those  who  with  good  land  and  low  rents  made  up 
the  somewhat  spendthrift  race  of  Irish  “strong  farm- 
ers.” His  house  was  well  built  and  warmly  thatched  ; 
it  had  its  fool,  its  lame  cook,  its  herd  of  hangers-on,  its 
guests,  whose  days  were  idleness  and  whose  nights  were 
too  frequently  drunken  revels.  He  was  amongst  the  last 
of  his  class,  and  as  many  of  our  readers  in  this  age  of 
staid,  sober  Incumbered-Estates-purchased  farms  may 
not  be  aware  of  the  causes  which  conduced  to  make 
Irish  “ gentlemen  farmers  ” incumbered  land-holders,  we 
here  insert,  from  “The  Nowlans,”  Banim’s  sketch  of 
Aby  Nowlan,  the  original  being  a cousin  and  neighbor 
of  John  Ruth  : — 

“ Daniel  Nowlan  had  an  important  bachelor  brother,  who  was  god- 
father to  his  second  son,  had  given  certain  characteristic  symptoms  of 
a liking  for  the  boy,  and  would  most  probably  take  him  home  one  of 
those  days,  keep  him  in  his  house,  ‘ and  make  a man  of  him.’  Some 
few  close  critics  now  and  then  hinted,  indeed,  that  no  such  hasty  con- 
clusions ought  to  be  drawn  from  the  symptoms  alluded  to,  or  from 
the  general  character  of  Mr.  Aby  Nowlan;  or,  supposing  John  to 
have  been  transported  to  his  house,  it  did  not  follow,  they  said,  that 
he  would  be  much  the  better  for  the  change  ; for  1 Master  Aby's 
house  was  a wasteful  house,  and  money  went  out  of  it,  a power  of 
money,’  no  one  knew  how  or  where  ; and,  in  fact,  the  hints  on  this 
subject  were  so  many,  that  we  feel  it  our  duty  to  bring  more  fully 
before  the  reader  the  character  and  condition  of  Mr.  Aby  Nowlan. 

“He  was  the  first  Roman  Catholic  ‘gentleman  farmer’  of  the  dis- 
trict, inheriting,  almost  undividedly,  the  profit  rents  of  many  farms 
taken  from  time  to  time  by  his  father,  at  very  low  terms  and  on  very 
long  leases,  tilled  and  cultivated  with  skill  and  industry,  and  at  last 
brought  to  such  perfection,  as  on  his  death-bed  to  leave  the  prema- 
ture old  man  the  willing  of  almost  a real  estate  of  about  one  thousand 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


109 


a year.  And,  by  the  will  he  made,  old  Nowlan  seemed  perfectly  to 
understand  the  importance  of  his  acquisitions  : for,  in  imitation  of  the 
proprietors  of  real  estates  around  him,  he  would  have,  in  his  eldest 
son,  a representative  also  $ while  three  other  sons,  Daniel  among  the 
number,  were  left  but  scantily  portioned  ; Murrough,  the  second, 
being  apprenticed  to  a saddler  in  Limerick,  and,  when  out  of  his 
time,  turned  off  to  shift  for  himself  upon  three  hundred  pounds  and 
a blessing  ; Davy,  the  third,  similarly  disposed  of  ‘ in  the  grocery 
line ;7  and  Daniel,  the  youngest,  favored,  at  the  same  rent  under 
which  the  old  man  himself  held  it,  with  a lease  of  part  of  the  ground 
on  which  we  now  see  him  living  and  thriving,  and  which,  indeed, 
was  the  beginning  of  his  prosperity. 

“ In  fact,  a gentleman,  ‘ a real  gentleman,7  old  Nowlan  would  leave 
behind  him  in  the  person  of  ‘ Master  Aby  ; 77  and  it  was  not  by  inde- 
pendence alone,  but  by  education  and  accomplishments  too,  he 
sought  to  confer  this  character.  For  himself,  who  had  the  making 
of  the  estate  with  his  own  two  hands,  late  and  early,  through  fair 
weather  and  foul,  1 the  larnin 7 would  have  been  no  use  to  him,  and 
might  have  proved  an  injury  ; but  the  son  who  was  to  get  all,  ready 
made  to  his  hand,  and  live  the  life  of  any  gentleman  upon  it,  why,  it 
well  became  him  to  put  something  besides  his  mark  to  a lease  or  a 
receipt,  and  to  be  able  to  read  any  book  that  might  come  in  the  way, 
and  to  keep  his  accounts  in  ‘ pin-writin,7  rather  than  on  *'a  tally,7 
and  to  have  a word  in  his  cheek  before  the  best  in  the  land  ; nay,  to 
understand  the  soggarth’s  Latin  itself,  and  not  6 to  have  it  tlirun 
away  upon  him,  like  a cow  or  a horse.7 

“ But  old  Nowlan’s  endeavors,  in  this  second  view,  were  not  as 
successful  as  his  previous  industry ; he  found  it  easier  to  make  a 
thousand  a year  for  his  son,  than  to  make  that  son  a scholar  or  a 
gentleman.  In  vain  did  he  send  him  to  the  best  schools  in  Limerick  ; 

1 Masther  Aby  7 either  learned  nothing  in  them,  or  did  not  stay  in 
them  long  enough  to  learn  anything.  Sometimes  he  was  turned 
home,  like  an  incurable  out  of  an  hospital ; sometimes  he  came  home 
of  his  own  accord,  and,  without  speaking  a word,  or  showing  the 
least  change  in  a face,  always,  from  youth  to  old  age,  unchangeable, 
sat  down  to  dinner  in  his  father’s  parlor  ; and,  more  than  once,  when 
the  old  fellow  thought  that  by  dint  of  a good  horsewhip  he  had 
succeeded  in  prevailing  upon  him  to  return  to  his  ‘schooling  that 
is,  when  after  a sound  Hogging  he  had  shut  the  door  in  his  face,  ‘ the 
young  masther 7 has  been  discovered,  months  after,  quietly  passing 


110 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


his  days  under  the  roof  of  some  distant  tenant ; eating,  drinking,  and 
sleeping ; whenever  it  was  possible,  riding  a horse  ; and  scarcely 
ever  opening  his  heavy-lipped  mouth  to  a creature  around  him. 

“ In  wrath  and  stern  resolve,  old  Nowlan  fell  upon  a plan,  sug- 
gested by  an  action  he  had  seen  performed  by  the  blockhead  himself. 
At  about  twelve  years  of  age,  Aby  was  well  skilled  in  dogs  of  all 
degree,  and  there  was  a certain  pointer  of  his  kennel  which  took  an 
objection  to  breakfast  on  ‘stirabout,’  just  at  the  very  time  when,  in 
consequence  of  the  animal’s  real  or  supposed  state  of  body,  stirabout 
was  deemed,  by  good  judges,  its  best  diet.  So  soon  as,  after  repeated 
efforts,  Aby  saw  that  the  dog  would  not  share  the  breakfast  of  its 
brother-and-sister  dogs,  he  was  observed  silently  to  unchain  it,  lead 
it  out  into  the  middle  of  the  yard,  secure  it  to  a large  stone,  place 
before  it  a platter  of  the  objectionable  food,  stand  by  until  a reason- 
able time  was  afforded  for  dog  or  man  to  form  a decided  opinion,  and 
then  flog  it  with  a steady  hand,  again  adjust  the  platter,  again  stand 
inactive,  again  flog,  flog,  and  so  continue,  until  some  kinder-hearted 
person  beguiled  him  from  his  employment,  or  until  his  father,  at  last 
recognising  the  matter,  came  out  with  another  horsewhip  in  his  hand, 
not  for  the  dog,  but  for  the  dog’s  master. 

“ And  on  this  hint,  old  Nowlan  acted  in  resolute  prosecution  of  his 
plan  to  make  his  eldest  son  a scholar.  Mounting  a good  horse,  he 
rode,  not  to  the  ablest,  but  to  the  severest  pedagogue  in  Limerick, 
and  proposed  an  unusual  pension  for  Aby’s  board  and  education,  on 
the  following  provisos : that,  first,  Aby  should  get  neither  breakfast 
nor  dinner  until  he  had  previously  breakfasted  ‘dacently’  on  his 
morning  and  afternoon  tasks,  or  else  upon  three  distinct  whippings, 
morning  and  evening  ; second,  that,  to  prevent  elopement  during  the 
day,  he  should  be  chained  by  the  neck  and  leg  to  a block  of  wood 
sufficiently  large  and  heavy  to  hinder  him  from  running,  or  even 
walking  fast;  and,  thirdly,  that  to  guard  against  the  like  accident 
at  night,  all  his  clothes  except  his  shirt  should  be  taken  from  him  as 
he  lay  down  in  bed,  and  not  restored  until  the  chain  and  log  were 
in  waiting  for  re-adjustment  at  the  hour  of  getting  up:  ‘ an  if  the 
bouchal  won’t  ate  his  stirabout  now,’  said  old  Nowlan,  when  the 
bargain  was  ended,  and  Aby  regularly  installed  in  his  log  and  fetters, 
‘ why,  he  may  just  folly  his  own  likins.’  And,  notwithstanding  the 
boasted  wisdom  of  the  arrangement,  and  the  unremitting  watchful- 
ness and  attentions  of  the  pedagogue,  ‘the  bouchal’  did  contrive 
to  ‘ folly  his  own  likins  : ’ for,  upon  a winter’s  morning  about  eight 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


Ill 


o’clock,  and  about  a fortnight  after  his  father  had  left  him  in  the 
school,  a vision  of  ‘ the  young  mastheiy  habited  solely  in  a draggle- 
tailed  shirt,  appeared  walking  up  to  the  house,  just  as  the  old  farmer 
was  on  his  way  to  a fair  at  Nenagh  ; so  they  met  in  the  little  avenue, 
and  Aby’s  first  salute  from  his  affectionate  parent  was  a lash  across 
his  shoulders,  at  which,  wincing  somewhat,  he  turned  down  the 
avenue  again,  and  showed  symptoms  of  a retreat  to  a tenant’s  house  ; 
but  the  father  spurring  his  horse,  intercepted,  and  by  words  and  con- 
tinued lashes,  exhorted  him  into  the  Limerick  road,  kept  him  in  it  for 
miles,  always  foiling  his  efforts  to  double  to  the  right  or  left ; until 
as  Limerick  came  in  view,  Aby,  roused  to  a dogged  despair,  rushed 
through  a gap  down  a descent  to  the  Shannon,  gained  the  river’s 
edge  before  his  father  could  baffle  his  sudden  movement,  plunged 
headlong  in,  and,  as  he  had  ever  been  too  lazy  to  learn  to  swim,  would 
most  certainly  have  been  drowned,  but  that  a fisherman’s  cot  paddled 
to  his  assistance,  picked  him  up,  and  returned  him  to  the  arms  of  his 
now  afflicted  and  remorseful  parent. 

“ This  was  his  last  trial.  From  this  day  out,  Aby  never  saw  the 
loathsome  interior  of  a school  ; though  to  the  hour  of  his  death,  his 
dreams  often  surrounded  him  with  its  villainous  circumstantiality. 
Old  Nowlan,  in  addition  to  his  caution  of  his  former  pertinacity, 
consoled  his  heart  with  various  reflections ; such  as,  when  he  was 
cross — ‘ hard  to  make  a silk  purse  out  iv  a sow’s  ear  ; hard  to  dhraw 
blood  from  a turnip  ; man  proposes,  God  disposes  : ’ or,  when  he  rec- 
ollected that  Aby  could  indeed  write  a tolerably  fair  hand,  and  read 
a book  without  much  coughing  and  hemming  ; and,  fair  time  being 
allowed,  and  no  hurry,  work  out  a sum  upon  a slate  to  the  effect  of 
‘ what  would  six  sacks  of  wheat  come  to  at  — the  sack  ? ’ and  find 
out  London  and  Dublin  upon  any  map  he  was  used  to,  with  other 
considerable  things  ; — why,  when  the  old  man  took  this  to  mind,  he 
would  comfort  himself  with — ‘ half  a loaf  is  betther  nor  no  bread  ; — 
take  an  inch  if  you  can’t  get  an  ell ; — too  much  of  one  thing  is  good 
for  nothing  ;’  &c.  &c. 

“ The  stupid  harmlessness  of  Aby’s  character  had  further  influence 
on  the  natural  feelings  of  the  parent : ‘ Avoch,  poor  boy,  there  wasn’t 
a bit  of  bad  in  him  ; an’  the  heart  was  in  the  right  place,  anyhow  ; — 
an’  he  was  no  sich  omadhaun,  neither ; smooth  water  runs  deep  : he 
could  see  as  far  into  a mill-stone  as  another : he  knew  more  nor  a 
cow  did  of  a bad  shillin’ ; lave  him  to  himself;  jist  let  well  enough 
alone  ; you’ll  never  see  him  atin’  pavin-stones  for  phayties  : ’ and  in 


112 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


time,  this  negative  admiration  amounted  to  real  love  ; even  of  the 
dolt’s  clumsy  person,  set  features,  and  staring  eyes,  the  father  became 
fond  ; nor  was  Aby’s  taciturnity  any  check  on  their  fire-side  com- 
munions, for,  just  as  one  can  talk  for  hours  to  a dog,  in  imaginary 
reply  to  its  set  gaze,  or  the  wagging  of  its  tail,  old  Nowlan  easily 
managed  long  conferences  with  his  eldest  son. 

“ In  a word,  ‘ Masther  Aby  ’ was  a mere  animal  of  a very  inoffen- 
sive and  perhaps  amiable  class  : not  a fool — that  gives  no  idea  of 
him:  an  animal  is  the  word, — an  animal  with  an  animal’s  wants, 
and  with  no  mental  stimulus  to  strive  for  anything  beyond  their 
gratification. 

“ Aby  Nowlan  however,  had.  in  common  with  his  father,  an  ambi- 
tion to  be  thought  a gentleman  ; but  he  manifested  it  in  a tamer  and 
more  slavish  way  than  his  father  would  have  done.  To  wear,  like 
‘ Square  Adams  ’ (meaning  Squire  Adams)  of  ‘ Mount-Nelson,’  (or 
some  such  ridiculous  name  conferred  on  a bit  of  barren  ground  once 
called  Killavochery,  or  Ballybrochlehin,  or  Coollavoorlich,  and  still 
surrounded  by  similar  ones) — to  wear  like  him,  who  was  the  county 
magistrate,  before-mentioned,  a very  blue  shining  coat  with  very 
bright  buttons,  a canary- colored  waistcoat,  top-boots,  and  fawn-col- 
ored small-clothes ; to  ride  like  him,  a good  hunter  to  every  hunt, 
and  like  him,  and  especially  to  him  and  his  nine  sons,  and  score 
friends,  to  give  great  meat  dinners,  and  ‘ lashins  ’ of  claret,  port  and 
sherry,  and  all  in  the  timid  hope  of  being  recognised  as  the  boon 
companion,  and  no  more,  of  a man  of  less  actual  wealth,  and  of  no 
more  actual  rank  than  himself ; this  was  the  weak,  mean  and  super- 
fluous way  in  which  stupid  Aby  Nowlan  tried  to  become  a gentleman. 
And,  to  his  heart’s  content,  the  ‘quality’  allowed  him  to  make  the 
experiment $ day  after  day,  night  after  night,  ‘ Square  ’ Adams,  and 
his  ranting  and  roaring,  cursing  and  swearing,  sons  and  cousins, 
friends  and  followers  (himself  as  great  a roarer  and  blasphemer  as 
any  amongst  them),  would  honor  ‘ the  bachelor’s  house  ’ with  their 
noise,  voracity,  guzzling  and  drunkenness ! While  1 Mrs.  Nowlan’  had 
a numerous  circle  to  tea  above  stairs,  the  ‘ masther  ’ gloated,  with 
staring  eyes,  and  with  scarce  a word  in  his  cheek,  on  all  this  glory 
in  the  parlor ; so  that  his  candle,  thus  lighted  at  both  ends,  blazed 
away  famously. 

“But  whether  or  no  these  loose  courses  of  Mr.  Aby  Nowlan  were 
attended  with  the  results  hinted  at  by  his  neighbors,  remained  more 
than  doubtful,  for  no  symptom  of  declining  grandeur  yet  appeared : 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


113 


the  house  might  still  be  found  full  of  company,  and  as  much  wine 
and  whiskey-punch  were  drunk  in  it  as  the  oldest  tenant  could 
remember.” 

John  Buth*  had  been  unlike  his  cousin,  the  original 
of  this  sketch  ; he  had  not  been  a drunkard,  but  he  had 
been  somewhat  unfortunate  in  his  farming  speculations, 
and  he  was  not  the  man  to  raise  himself  into  competence 
•when  he  had  once  fallen  from  his  position.  But  in  the 
incident  of  Banim’s  life  which  we  are  about  to  relate, 
this  circumstance  weighed  lightly  with  him.  John  Buth 
had  three  daughters — all  pretty,  and  well  educated  for 
their  position  in  life.  Banim,  as  their  father’s  guest, 
was  frequently  their  companion  : he  was  not  the  fiery- 

souled  adorer  of  the  days  when  he  wooed  Anne  D ; 

the  hard  and  iron  realities  of  his  life  in  Dublin  had 
taught  him,  that  love  which  begins  without  calculating 
upon  mutton  chops,  lodgings  and  coal,  is  likely  to  expire 
in  the  daily  struggle  for  the  procuring  of  these  neces- 
saries— yet  he  was  ardent  enough  to  love  the  youngest 
daughter  of  his  host — even  though  she  were  dowerless. 
He  had  known  Ellen  Buth  little  more  than  a fortnight 
when  he  told  her  that  he  loved  her.  He  did  not  ask  her 
then  to  marry  him  ; he  left  Kilkenny  for  Dublin.  He 
published  a pamphlet  on  the  proposed  testimonial 
commemorative  of  the  visit  of  George  the  Fourth  to 
Ireland,  and  after  arranging  his  affairs  in  Dublin,  pre- 
paratory to  removing  to  London,  he  returned,  in  the 

* This  is  not  the  only  instance  in  which  Banim  has  introduced  his  wife’s 
family  name  : for  example,  in  “ The  Fetches,”  he  gives  the  name  Ruth  to  his 
heroine  “Anne.” 


114 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


month  of  February,  1822,  to  Kilkenny.  He  then  found 
that  his  love  of  Ellen  Ruth  was  returned  by  an  affection 
as  warm,  and  fond,  and  true  as  his  own  ; and  after  a 
courtship  of  less  than  five  months,  John  Banim  in  his 
twenty-fourth  year,  and  Ellen  Ruth  in  her  nineteenth, 
were  married  on  the  27th  of  February,  1822.  A pure 
heart,  a sweet  kindly  face,  and  great  love  and  trust  in 
her  husband,  wTere  all  the  fortune  she  brought  him  ; and 
as  we  recall  now  the  patient  care,  the  tender,  never- 
flagging  zeal  with  which,  in  after  years,  she  bore  her 
part  as  wife,  and  nurse,  in  many  a weary  month  when 
her  husband  slept  but  for  minutes,  to  awaken  to  hours 
of  agony,  we  can  apply  to  her  the  beautiful  lines  in 
Gerald  Massey’s  “Poor  Man’s  Wife” — 

“ Her  heart  it  was  lowly  as  maiden’s  might  be, 

But  hath  climb’d  to  heroic  height, 

And  burn’d  like  a shield  in  defence  of  me, 

On  the  sorest  field  of  fight ! 

And  startling  as  fire,  it  hath  often  flasht  up 
In  her  eyes,  the  good  heart  and  rare ! 

As  she  drank  down  her  half  of  our  bitterest  cup, 

And  taught  me  how  to  bear.” 

On  the  13th  of  March,  1822,  less  than  one  month 
after  their  marriage,  Banim  and  his  young  wife  set  out 
for  London,  really  to  seek  their  fortune.  To  the  student 
of  literary  history,  how  many  memories  the  words  “ seek- 
ing his  fortune,”  and  “ settled  in  London,”  bring  back 
upon  the  mind.  Johnson  rises  first — the  great,  heaving 
figure  is  before  us — he  has  failed  as  “ a dominy,” — his 
weary  years  of  sorrowiul  youth,  and  disappointed  early 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BxYNIM. 


115 


manhood  are  past,  and  now  he  seeks  but  bread  by  the 
labor  of  his  brain.  David  Garrick,  with  his  skipping 
step,  and  bright  black  eye,  can  work  his  way,  and  his 
little  vanities  but  help  him  onward ; but  the  deep, 
loving  soul,  with  thoughts  and  hopes  for  all,  is  gloomy 
and  distressed  ; he  lives  somehow,  “ genteely,”  at  an 
eightpenny  “ordinary/7  “with  good  company,  sir  and 
he  hangs  about  Cave’s  at  St.  John’s  Gate.  He  hopes 
on,  he  calls  upon  Wilcox  the  bookseller,  with  a letter  of 
introduction,  and  requests  employment  as  a literary 
man  ; Wilcox  looks  at  him,  measures  his  burly  frame, 
scans  his  heavy  face,  and  tells  him  he  had  better  “buy  a 
porter’s  knot.”  But  he  still  perseveres  ; he  has  a poem 
with  him,  an  imitation  of  J uvenal,  and  Dodsley  liking  it 
publishes  it  for  him,  and  when  his  “ London  ” appeared# 
Samuel  Johnson  was  “settled  in  London.7’  Goldsmith 
comes  next  to  London — poor  Goldsmith ! his  has  been 
a wild,  wandering  life  ; but  man  and  woman,  age  and 
youth,  had  ever  loved  him  as  he  loved  them.  He  is  at 
first  an  usher  in  a school — what  he  thought  of  that 
employment  he  has  told  us  in  his  “ Life  of  a Philosophi- 
cal Vagabond  he  leaves  the  school  and  sets  up  as  a 
physician  at  Bankside,  and  he  “ has  plenty  of  patients, 
but  no  fees.”  He  too  hangs  about  the  publishers ; a 
little  pock-marked  man,  very  shabby  indeed,  for  this 
was  before  the  days  of  William  Filby  the  tailor,  and 
the  “ peach-colored  suit ; ” but  he  works  on,  as  he  ever 
did,  hopefully,  giving  pence  in  charity  when  he  himself 
lived  on  pennies.  And  when  the  world  thought  Sterne 


116 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


a great  novelist,  thought  Beattie  a great  poet,  thought 
Kelly  a great  comic  writer,  Heaven  knows  poor  Gold- 
smith might  have  despaired,  even  if  Newbery  had  not 
retained  the  “ Vicar  of  Wakefield”  for  two  years,  even 
if  Coleman  had  not  thought  so  meanly  of  his  play,  as 
to  refuse  to  paint  a new  scene  for  a thing  which  he  was 
sure  must  be  damned.  These  woes  he  suffered  before 
he  was  “ settled  in  London,”  and  yet  Oliver  Goldsmith 
died  2,000Z.  in  debt — truly  we  may  exclaim  with  Johnson, 
“ Was  ever  poet  so  trusted  before?”  Then  Tom  Moore 
goes  to  London  ; bright-souled  Tom,  with  his  light- 
purse,  his  glowing  fancy,  and  his  loving  heart ; he  had 
no  dark  days  save  when  he  wanted  a new  coat ; he  for- 
got this  care  too  in  a supper  with  “ Incledon  and  Irish 
Johnson,”  and  thought  of  it  only  when  he  was  asked 
to  dine  by  “the  Honorable  Mrs.  Gardiner,  an  English 
woman,  but  she  has  an  Irish  heart ; ” he  is  happy  be- 
cause the  Prince  accepts  the  dedication  of  “ Anacreon  : ” 
and  thus  Tom  Moore  is  “settled  in  London.”  Gerald 
Griffin  goes  to  London  ; a boy,  fresh  from  the  blooming 
fields  of  his  native  place,  founding  his  hopes  of  success 
upon  his  tragedies  “ Aguire,”  and  “ Gisippus  ; ’’  only  in 
his  twentieth  year,  and  with  no  friend  in  all  the  great 
city  save  one — John  Banim.  What  a struggle  was  his ! 
“ Cheated  abominably  ” by  Magazines  to  which  he  had 
contributed  ; translating  a “ volume  and  a-half  of  one 
of  Prevot’s  works  for  two  guineas  ; ” disgusted  with 
his  employment,  “there  was  so  much  shuffling  and 
shabby  work,”  but  yet  he  was  ever  hopeful,  and  Gerald 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


117 


Griffin  was  only  “ settled  in  London  ” wlien  bis  “ Col- 
legians 55  appeared  ; and  as  his  other  novels  were  written 
at  all  times,  and  in  all  places,  so  this  was  written 
“ against  the  printer,”  and  as  it  was  required. 

These  are  the  memories  which  arise  as  we  record 
the  going  forth  of  John  Banim  to  seek  his  fortune  in 
London,  and  to  obtain  a home  for  his  wife  in  that 
unknown  place.  And  truly  his  home  was  her  home — • 
they  had  no  home  save  his,  save  that  home  which  he 
should  procure,  and  support  by  his  own  exertions  ; and 
with  a hurried  leave-taking  they  quitted  the  old  folks 
at  Cappagha  and  Kilkenny.  It  was  a speedy  farewell, 
but  one  in  which  good  wishes  came  from  the  souls 
of  the  home-stayers.  There  was  only  the  “ God  bless 
you/5  of  the  father  and  mother  ; the  “ God  speed  ye,55 
of  the  neighbor  ; the  “ God  be  with  ye/5  of  Michael  and 
the  sisters — and,  last  but  not  least,  the  firm  grasp  of 
the  hand,  and  the  honest  smile  of  the  servant,  as  she 
half  laughing,  half  weeping,  said,  “ More  power  to 
you,  Misther  John/5  And  so,  passing  from  the  scene 
of  his  joys  and  sorrows,  John  Banim  went  forth  to 
London  ; and  as  he  and  his  wife  moved  away  towards 
that  vast  city  of  all  earthly  evil  and  good,  they  proved 
the  beautifulest  thing  in  all  the  world — woman,  in  her 
blooming  youth,  clinging  to  man  in  the  strength  and 
energy  of  genius — two  whose  hearts  beat  but  as  one, 
whose  life  was  faith,  and  hope,  and  love — faith  in  the 
bliss  of  to-day — hope  in  the  work  of  the  dreamy  future 
— love  in  all  times  and  in  all  fortunes.  And  as  they 


118 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


entered  the  city,  so  they  entered  the  reality  of  life,  and 
began  to  learn  that  solemn  truth  of  Goethe,  “ Ernst  ist 
das  Leben.” 

He  arrived  with  his  wife  in  the  metropolis  on  the 
23d  of  March,  1822.  He  had  no  friend  in  all  that 
world,  he  had  very  little  money,  but  he  possessed  all 
the  courage  that  ever  dwells  in  the  strong,  deep  heart 
of  genius — and  he  required  all,  its  fullest,  sustainment. 
Most  literary  men  have  commenced  the  struggle  of 
London  life  with  no  claims  upon  their  exertions  save 
their  own  needs  ; and  in  the  from-hand-to-mouth  ex- 
istence of  a young  adventurer,  who  must  be  prepared 
to  wade  and  buffet  in  the  tide  of  men  around  him,  ere 
he  can  hope  to  swim  smoothly  along  the  deep,  broad 
stream  of  popularity,  this  circumstance  of  being  sole  is 
of  great  importance  ; it  eases  the  load  of  anxiety  and 
care  ; and  be  such  a young  man’s  course  right  or  wrong, 
he  knows  that  in  his  failure  he  alone  can  suffer  ; if  he 
succeed,  his  reward  must  be  in  the  hereafter  of  a 
future  fame,  and  in  the  love  of  a wife  wooed  and  won 
in  days  not  perhaps  happier,  but  more  secure  in  that 
realized  fame — a good  name  with,  as  Goldsmith  said, 
the  author’s  “real  patrons — the  booksellers.” 

Banim,  however,  thought  not  of  these  things.  Forth 
from  home  he  went,  with  his  young  wife,  and  his  first 
residence  in  London  was  at  No.  7,  Amelia  Place, 
Brompton — the  house  in  which  John  Philpot  Curran  had 
lived  the  last  months  of  his  life — the  house  in  which 
he  died,  on  the  14th  of  October,  1817,  and  which  John 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


119 


Banim  entered,  as  a resident,  on  the  29th  of  March, 
1822.  It  was  the  last  of  a row  of  nine  houses,  and 
around  it  were  green  and  pleasant  fields,  and  a nursery 
garden,  which  now  forms  the  ground  of  Pelham 
Crescent.  Banim  was  elated  at  gaining  possession^ 
these  lodgings.  His  first  pilgrimage  in  London  (every 
literary  man  who  is  worth  the  name,  has  some  long- 
selected  spot  in  London,  to  which  he  makes  a pilgrim- 
age on  his  first  visit)  had  been  to  the  scene  of  Curran’s 
death  ; a lodging-bill  was  in  the  window — “ I,”  as  he 
afterwards  said,  “bolted  in,  I took  the  rooms  at  once, 
that  I might  dream  of  Ireland,  with  the  glory  and  halo 
of  Curran’s  memory  around  me.”  Here,  amidst  the 
semi-rurality  of  a London  suburb,  he  fixed  his  residence, 
and  he  thus,  in  his  first  letter  to  the  dear  friends  in 
Kilkenny,  describes  his  lodgings,  and  relates  the  feel- 
ings and  emotions  with  which  his  heart  is  filled  : — 

“ London,  7 Amelia  Place,  Fulham  Road. 

“ March  3 Oth,  1822. 

“My  dear  Father  and  Mother, — We  got  into  Lon- 
don on  Monday  evening.  Tuesday,  Wednesday,  and 
Thursday  we  spent  lodging-hunting.  We  settled  here 
on  yesterday.  We  are  pleasantly  situated  as  regards 
accommodation  ; and  when  I retire  to  the  back  drawing- 
room, which  I have  fixed  upon  for  my  study,  I am 
as  cjuiet  as  if  I were  in  a wood.  Exclusive  of  the 
conveniences  I enjoy,  there  is  a charm  attached  to  my 
abode,  that  recommended  it  to  me  above  all  others  ; I 
breathe  the  very  air  of  inspiration,  I sit  in  the  same 
chair,  I lounge  on  the  same  sofa,  and  I think,  read, 


120 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


and  write  in  the  very  study  where  John  Philpot  Curran 
sat,  lounged,  and  thought. 

“ Four  years  of  the  latter  part  of  this  great  man’s 
life  were  spent  in  the  rooms  I now  occupy.  His 
thoughts,  even  yet,  perhaps,  float  about  my  little  study  ; 
an&  when  I lock  the  door,  and  sit  down,  I almost 
imagine  I can  get  them  into  a corner  and  make  them 
my  own.” 

The  day  following  that  on  which  he  entered  these 
lodgings,  he  commenced  preparations  for  a vigorous 
performance  of  his  duties  as  an  author.  His  details  to 
Michael,  in  the  following  letter,  the  course  which  he 
had  adopted,  “ to  keep,”  as  he  said,  “ the  fire  in  and  the 
spit  turning.’’ 

One  can  fancy  the  brave,  true-hearted  “ country 
boy,”  sitting  at  the  breakfast  table,  with  a good  appetite, 
in  which  “ Ellen  keeps  him  in  countenance,”  earnestly 
searching  the  advertisements  of  The  Times  for  some 
employment  that  might  suit  him  ; and  wondering,  like 
Tom  Pinch,  that  so  many  people  wanted  what  others 
offered  to  supply,  yet  apparently  the  parties  never 
met.  We  can  fancy  him,  after  a fortnight  of  these 
hopes,  and  fears,  and  expectations  had  elapsed,  writing 
thus  so  heartily  and  honestly,  as  he  ever  wrote,  to 
Michael  : — 

“London,  April  ith,  1822. 

“ My  dear  Michael, — Do  not  be  so  uneasy  about  me  ; 
I am  in  the  receipt  of  a weekly  stipend,  that  is,  paid 
weekly,  but  it  is  a settled  annuity,  which  keeps  the 
pot  boiling  very  well. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


121 


“As  soon  as  I was  fixed  I took  up  a newspaper, 
looked  over  the  advertisements,  saw  a new  periodical 
advertised,  wrote  immediately  to  the  proprietors,  fur- 
nishing some  specimens  of  my  capability  ; was  treated 
with  immediate  attention,  and  soon  engaged,  and  I am 
right  well  pleased  with  the  concern  altogether. 

“ And  now  you  must  praise  me,  and  say  that  I have 
not  succeeded  badly  at  the  outset,  considering  that  I 
am  only  an  Irish  country  boy. 

“ I work  hard,  to  be  sure,  to  meet  my  engagement ; 
it  is  what  I expected,  and  what  I like.  I am  not 
indebted  to  a single  introductory  letter  : this  to  me  is 
delightful — to  work  one’s  own  way,  without  incurring 
obligation,  sweetens  labor. 

“I  was  at  work  the  second  day  after  I got  into  a 
fixed  abode.  I will  take  amusement,  when  I can  do  so 
consistently  with  my  industry  : plenty  of  time  for  that : 
in  the  meanwhile,  I repeat  it,  is  it  not  delightful  to  feel 
myself  getting  on  in  a strange  world,  by  my  own  efforts 
alone? 

“The  expense  of  traveling  has  been  very  great,  and 
the  cost  of  living  here  out  of  all  proportion  with  Kil- 
kenny. Then  why,  you  will  say,  saddle  yourself  with  a 
responsibility  to  create  the  expense  ? My  dear  Michael, 
this  is  my  answer — I have  purchased  by  my  outlay, 
rational  happiness,  settled  habits,  and  a continual  stimu- 
lus to  future  exertion.  With  the  money  I have  expended 
I am  as  happy  as  any  fellow  can  be,  in  my  humble 
sphere.  I am  in  excellent  health  and  spirits.  My  appe- 
tite may  be  said  to  be  too  voracious  for  my  income  ; and 
further,  Ellen  keeps  me  in  countenance  in  this  respect. 
I go  to  bed  early,  rise  early,  drink  nothing  but  water 
or  tea  ; work  with  a liking  for  it,  all  the  day  long,  and 

6 


122 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BAN1M. 


I have  my  cheerful  fireside,  with  a companion  thereat 
whose  smile  cheers  me  after  my  toil.” 

This  letter  was  written  in  the  month  of  April  ; and 
early  in  the  July  following  a weekly  paper,  entitled  The 
Literary  Begisler,  was  started,  and  Banim  was  engaged 
upon  its  staff,  and  was  also  occasionally  employed  as 
its  editor.  This  wras  his  first  step  as  a literary  man  in 
London,  and  he  believed  it  to  be  a fortunate  one,  for  it 
proved  to  him  that  “ a country  boy  ” might  succeed,  had 
he  but  ability  and  industry ; and  in  reply  to  some  anx- 
ious questions  of  Michael’s,  regarding  his  position  and 
prospects,  he  wrote  thus  : — 

“London,  July  21th,  1822. 

“My  dear  Michael, — Your  affectionate  queries  shall 
be  answered.  I am  well  off,  better  than  I deserve  to  be, 
with  a rational  prospect  of  doing  gradually  better.  I 
am  a more  industrious  fellow  than  I was  ever  before. 
It  is  my  delight ; it  agrees  with  me.  My  health  is  good  ; 
my  domestic  happiness  equal  to  my  anticipation.  My 
time  is  my  own ; that  is,  I can  apportion  it  as  I please, 
consistently  with  my  duties  ; and  I patiently  and  reso- 
lutely await  the  coming  of  events.” 

Amidst  all  his  own  cares  and  wants,  he  was  at  this 
early  period  as  anxious  to  serve  a young  man,  a young 
Irishman  in  particular,  who  needed  assistance,  as  in 
after  days,  when  in  the  full  possession  of  his  fame,  and 
of  his  influence,  he  aided  Gerald  Griffin  with  that  heart- 
whole  kindness  which  caused  Gerald  to  write  from 
London  to  his  brother,  “ what  should  I have  done  if  I 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


123 


had  not  met  Banim  ? mark  me ! that  is  a man — almost 
the  only  one  I have  met  here.”  Indeed,  he  was  never 
weary  of  assisting  needy  brother-authors  by  advice,  and 
by  kind  words  spoken  in  their  favor  to  those  who  could 
really  advance  them  ; and  money  too  he  would  give,  but 
he  had  it  rarely  to  spare  : he  was  not,  however,  inclined 
to  encourage  the  folly  of  those  who  consider  that  London 
is  a city  where  wealth  can  be  made,  in  any  profession  or 
walk  of  life,  without  energy  and  patience.  The  follow- 
ing letter  to  Michael  gives  an  amusing  account  of  his 
treatment  of  a young  Irishman  who  had  requested  his 
counsel  and  direction,  on  certain  matters  connected  with 
a proposed  visit  to  London  in  search  of  employment,  as 
an  apothecary’s  assistant.  The  plain  good  sense  of  the 
letter  is  very  deserving  of  the  attention  of  young  gentle- 
men of  large  aspirations,  but  small  experience,  who  fancy 
that  an  Irishman  in  London  is  a very  wonderful  and 
clever  fellow,  and  must  excel  the  natives  of  England  or 
Scotland.  Banim  wrote  thus  : — 


“ London,  August  8th,  1822. 

“My  dear  Michael, — Your  inclosure  from  Mr.  Mac 
Gawly  is  curious  : let  me  quote  for  you  ; he  requests 
me  to  inquire  into  the  state  of  the  medical  profession 
in  London  ; and  says,  ‘ would  you  have  the  goodness  to 
acquaint  me  if  there  are  facilities  to  Irishmen,  to  obtain 
appointments  at  the  houses  of  apothecaries  ? 9 

“ What  the  deuce ! (Lord  forgive  me)  nonsensical 
work  is  this  he  gives  me  to  do  ? By  what  means  am  I 
to  make  out  that  vaguely  generalised  study — the  state 
of  the  medical  profession  in  London  ? What  does  he, 


124 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


or  wliat  can  he,  mean  by  facilities  to  Irishmen  to 
become  druggists’  assistants  ? Have  they  not  the 
same  facilities  possessed  by  Scotchmen,  Welshmen,  any 
men  ? I think  I would  not  be  serving  Mr.  Mac  Gawly, 
did  I induce  him  to  venture  over  here.  Depend 
on  it,  he  would  find  it  hard,  even  had  he  every  facility, 
to  pound  his  way  through  the  bustling  and  shoulder- 
ing of  this  place  of  rivalry.” 

Banim’s  prospects  were  now  becoming  brighter  ; he 
had  been  engaged  on  other  periodicals,  through  the 
ability  which  had  distinguished  his  contributions  to 
The  Literary  Register : so  far  he  had  been  fortunate  ; 
but  his  wife  became  ill,  her  life  was  in  imminent  dan- 
ger, and  in  the  month  of  November,  1822,  she  was 
delivered  of  a still-born  child.  These  combined  sor- 
rows were  the  clouds  of  his  married  life  ; but  yet  he 
bore  up  against  them  hopefully,  manfully — above  all, 
Christianly.  If  to-day  were  dark,  to-morrow  might  be 
sunny  ; and  his  life  was  as  that  shown  in  the  stanza  of 
Shakespeare, — 

“ O,  how  this  spring  of  love  resembleth 
The  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day, 

Which  now  shows  all  the  beauty  of  the  sun, 

And  by  and  by  a cloud  takes  all  away  !” 

His  present  griefs  and  future  hopes  were  thus  told 
by  him  to  Michael  ; and,  short  as  the  letter  is,  there 
shines  a noble,  beautiful  heart  through  every  sentiment 
which  it  contains  : — 

“ London,  November  22 d,  1822. 

“My  dear  Michael, — Ellen  has  just  escaped  with  her 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


125 


life  ; her  confinement  was  premature,  and  our  lovely 
little  infant  came  into  the  world  still-born.  My  ex- 
penses have  been  great,  between  nurse,  doctor,  and 
apothecary.  But  God  has  done  all  for  me  ; notwith- 
standing that  I have  encountered  real  difficulties,  I 
may  say  I enjoy  absolute  comfort.  I can  put  my 
hand  in  my  pocket  for  every  shilling  circumstances 
require,  and  my  purse  is  never  positively  empty. 

“ Conceive  how  grateful  I ought  to  be  to  heaven  for 
my  real  independence,  hardly  earned,  but  the  sweeter 
for  that  very  reason. 

“ My  salary  has  been  increased,  and  I earn  some- 
thing by  contributing  to  other  periodicals.” 

Mrs.  Banim  regained  her  health  very  slowly.  Con- 
stant labor  of  the  brain  was  required  from  the  young 
husband,  that  money  might  be  procured  to  meet  the 
increased  expenses  of  his  wife’s  illness.  "We  know 
nothing  more  interesting,  in  the  whole  wide  range  of 
literary  biography,  than  the  account  given  by  Banim, 
in  the  following  letter  to  Michael,  of  his  position.  It  is 
not  painful,  or  disagreeable  in  its  details  of  an  honest, 
poor  man’s  needs  ; for  the  sorrows  of  the  time  are 
relieved  by  the  hope,  and  trust,  and  content  by  which 
he  is  sustained  ; and  he  required  all  his  cheerfulness  : 
he  wrote  in  a house  where  his  wife  lay  ill — where  his 
servant  lay  sick  ; he  was  at  his  desk  about  fourteen 
hours  each  day ; he  had  “ doctors,  and  their  bills 
galore;”*  and  now  it  was  that  he  found  the  usefulness 
of  the  stern  discipline  of  the  time  when  he  walked 


* i.  e.  in  plenty. 


126 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


about  the  streets  for  want  of  a bed,  and  whistled  for 
his  dinner,  being  not  the  first  by  many  and  many  a 
score,  who  has  involuntarily  and  unconsciously  learned,* 
in  the  school  of  early  poverty,  those  lessons  of  self-denial 
and  self-discipline,  without  which  success  seems  to  be 
problematical,  if  not  impossible,  in  any  and  every  walk 
of  life.  There  is  a charming,  lovable,  honest  simplicity 
in  the  confession — that,  much  as  he  liked  a glass  of 
punch,  he  never  has  it  now  ; and  one  can  suppose  that 
as  he  wrote  he  recalled  the  happy  evenings  when  with 
his  father,  and  Michael,  and  Mr.  Buchanan,  he  sat  by 
“ the  little  octagon  table  ” in  the  old  man’s  “ sanctum 
sanctorum,”  when  the  pleasant  jokes  went  round  with 
the  bottle  ; and  things  were  somewhat  changed,  for — 
“By  the  life  of  Pharaoh,  sir,  if  I do  not  ply  and  tease 
the  brain,  as  wool-combers  tease  wool,  the  fire  should 
go  out,  and  the  spit  could  not  turn.”  The  letter  to 
which  we  have  referred  is  the  following,  and  was  written 
about  a month  after  Mrs.  Banim’s  premature  con- 
finement : — 

, “ London,  December  22 d,  1822. 

“ My  dear  Michael, — I sit  down  to  reply  to  two  let- 
ters of  yours  for  which  I am  in  your  debt. 

“Ellen  continues  to  go  on  tolerably,  though  not  as 
rapidly  as  my  opinion  of  her  constitution  led  me  to 
hope. 

“ You  say  you  will  favor  me  with  your  cordial 
criticisms.  My  dear  brother,  you  could  not  more  ma- 
terially serve  me.  I give  you  my  word,  I throw  off  all 
matters  for  the  Register , as  I do  this  letter,  and  with- 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


127 


out  half  my  present  stimulus  or  purpose.  I must  write 
— must  stuff  the  gaping  maw*  of  that  weekly  glutton, 
with  anything  to  fill  it.  Pages — pages ! that  is  the  cry. 
Well,  too  well  I feel  convinced  that  part,  often  the  whole 
of  every  packet,  I shoot  off  at  the  office,  is  bad,  meagre 
stuff.  But  here  is  my  difficulty.  I have  not  time  to 
hunt  for  these  parts,  in  order  to  fix  them  and  avoid  their 
repetition.  By  the  life  of  Pharaoh,  sir,  if  I do  not  ply 
and  tease  the  brain,  as  wool-combers  tease  wool,  the 
fire  should  go  out,  and  the  spit  could  not  turn. 

“ By-the-bye,  I am  held  pretty  tight  at  present.  My 
poor  Ellen  is  ill,  and  my  very  good  servant,  as  if  for 
the  purpose  of  adding  to  my  difficulties,  has  got  some 
confounded  stoppage  in  her  throat,  and  is  in  bed  too, 
not  able  to  swallow.  Matters  have  been  thus  for  a week 
back,  and  we  have  doctors  and  their  bills  galore.  To 
meet  the  unavoidable  increase  of  outlay,  I am  obliged 
to  knuckle  down  to  my  work,  and  to  live  close — close, 
myself.  You  may  remember,  I used  to  like  a cheerful 
glass.  Not  one  libation  now,  even  to  the  temperate 
fireside  Bacchus.  I am  in  great  spirits  for  all  that ; I 
am  always  so,  thank  God  for  it.” 


These  labors  here  recorded  : this  “ teasing  the 
brain,”  this  knuckling  down  to  his  work,  ‘This  living 
close,  close,”  at  length  produced  its  inevitable  results, 
and  the  poor,  brave  heart,  whilst  stout  as  ever,  was 
overcome  by  the  necessities  of  the  wTeaker  frame — the 
sword  was  outwearing  the  sheath. 

In  the  hour  of  his  utmost  extremity,  at  the  time 
when  Banim  most  required  health  and  energy,  a ter- 
rible sickness  settled  upon  him,  the  malady  of  his  life 


128 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


began,  and  to  him  the  awful  moral  of  Cowper’s  lines 
was  taught  by  a fierce  discipline  of  agony — 

*•  Read,  ye  that  run,  the  awful  truth, 

With  which  I charge  my  page  ; 

A worm  is  in  the  bud  of  youth, 

And  at  the  root  of  age.77 

Early  in  the  year  1823,  the  racking  pains  which  had 
afflicted  him  during  the  twelve  months  succeeding  the 
death  of  Anne  D , returned  with  all  their  violence. 

The  tortures  which  he  endured,  in  head  and  limbs, 
were  increased  by  the  thought  that  a delicate  wife  was 
now  dependent  upon  him  for  support,  and,  as  a 
“ Sorrow’s  crown  of  sorrow/7 

liis  physician  ordered  an  entire  cessation  of  all  literary 
employments.  This  was  a woeful  sentence.  It  meant 
that  he  must  consign  himself  to  beggary,  or  become, 
with  his  wife,  a burden  upon  his  father,  to  whom  it 
had  been  his  earnest  hope  that  he  might,  at  no  distant 
period,  be  an  assistance.  All  was  dark  and  gloomy 
around  him  now,  and  at  the  very  time,  too,  when  suc- 
cess seemed  to  be  within  his  grasp.  The  despondency 
of  his  first  sickness  returned  : no  hope — no  rest — pain 
by  day — pain  by  night — pain  even  in  dreams — and 
waking  hours  but  offering  objects  to  rend  the  heart ; 
for,  as  time  passed  on,  he  fancied  that  his  position 
with  the  publishers  and  the  readers  became  weaker 
and  more  uncertain. 

He  wrote  at  length  to  his  father,  informing  him  of 
Ins  condition,  and  stating  that  he  feared  he  should  be 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


129 


forced  to  claim  tlie  shelter  of  his  roof  for  himself 
and  for  his  wife.  To  whom  could  he  fly  from  pain 
and  want,  but  to  those  for  whom  every  pulse  of  his 
heart  had  ever  beat  warmly  in  the  dawn  of  fame 
and  manhood,  as  in  the  days  of  hopeful,  dreaming, 
loving  youth  ? 

He  was,  however,  spared  the  sorrow  of  this  return 
to  Kilkenny.  With  rest,  and  skilful  medical  attend- 
ance, he  was,  after  the  lapse  of  some  months,  restored 
to  health  ; and  with  the  first  indication  of  its  return, 
he  thus,  with  a buoyant  spirit,  writes  to  his  father  : — 

“ We  are  wrong  to  anticipate  twenty  cloudy  days, 
because  one  is  overcast.  Praises  be  to  Heaven,  I am 
better  and  likely  to  mend.  My  Sangrado  frightened 
himself  and  frightened  me,  and  I terrified  you  all  at 
home  too  much.  I must  not,  however,  write  so  con- 
stantly ; I must  devote  four  hours  per  diem  to  exercise, 
for  some  time.” 

Whilst  writing  thus  hopefully  of  his  health,  his  means 
of  support  were  much  diminished.  He  was  unable  to 
spend  sufficient  time  at  his  desk  to  keep  up  his  con- 
nection with  the  periodical  press  as  in  the  days  before 
his  illness,  and  therefore  he  was  forced  to  endure  many 
wants,  many  privations.  But,  as  usual,  he  hoped  ; and 
as  his  connection  with  the  weekly  press  decreased,  he 
became  a more  regular  and  better  paid  contributor  to 
the  monthlies.  This  circumstance  was  advantageous  to 
him  in  one  very  important  particular  ; his  work  was  no 
longer  task  work,  filling  stuff,  struck  off  for  the  printer, 


130 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


and  against  time  ; and  lie  had  therefore  leisure  to  pro- 
duce papers  of  a more  finished  and  more  carefully 
written  character.  With  recovered  health  he  changed 
his  residence  from  7 Amelia  Place,  to  13  Brompton 
Grove,  where  he  had  for  neighbors,  in  Grove  House, 
first,  William  Wilberforce,  and  secondly,  William  Jer- 
dan.* 

His  leisure,  shortly  after  taking  possession  of  these 
lodgings,  were  rendered  still  greater  by  the  termination 
of  The  Literary  Register , which  closed  its  publication 
with  the  44th  number,  in  May,  1823. 

With  leisure  came  back  the  old  love  of  dramatic 
poetry ; and  amidst  his  other  occupations,  he  found 
time  to  compose  a tragedy,  which  he  entitled  “ The 
Prodigal.”  The  plot  was  well  conceived,  the  situations 
most  effective,  and  the  language  glowing,  yet  vigorous. 
The  chief  character,  “ The  Prodigal,”  resolves  to  mur- 
der his  father ; he  is  led  on  by  passion  ; the  perpe- 
tration of  the  crime  is  checked  by  remorse,  and  in  the 
moment  of  committal  the  foul  design  is  abandoned. 
“The  Prodigal”  was  accepted  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre, 
and  the  parts  were  cast  for  Kean  and  Young. 

Banim  had  just  succeeded  in  getting  his  tragedy 
accepted,  when  there  arrived  to  him  from  the  county 
Limerick,  bearing  a letter  of  introduction,  a healtliy- 
looking,  handsome  youth,  who  had  come  to  London 

* No.  13  Brompton  Grove,  was  lately  occupied  by  a stone-mason.  Gerald 
Gridin  succeeded  Banim  in  these  lodgings,  which  are  separated  from  Grove 
House  only  by  Hermitage  Lane — which  takes  its  name  from  the  Hermitage — the 
house  occupied  by  Madame  Catalani,  during  her  residence  \n  England.  It  was4 
after  she  left  it,  converted  into  a private  lunatic  asylum. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


181 


to  seek  his  fortune  and  to  secure  his  fame  by  the  sale 
or  representation  of  two  tragedies,  which  he  carried 
with  him  from  his  native  place  ; it  was  poor  Gerald 
Griffin,  all  genius  and  hope  ; but  knowing  as  little 
of  London  or  the  booksellers  as  did  Parson  Adams 
when  he  commenced  that  famous  journey  to  the  city 
to  negotiate  the  sale  of  his  two  volumes  of  sermons. 
Griffin  had  found  much  difficulty  in  discovering 
Banim’s  residence ; and  whilst  seeking  it,  he  heard 
from  an  acquaintance,  that  Banim  had  a tragedy  in 
rehearsal  at  Drury  Lane,  entitled  “ The  Prodigal and 
thus,  even  before  the  future  friends  had  spoken,  one 
of  Gerald’s  hopes  was  crushed  ; he  had  a tragedy  in 
his  trunk,  and  which  he  had  called  “The  Prodigal 
Son.”  At  length  the  two  poets  met  ; and  Griffin,  in 
a letter  to  his  brother  Wilham,  thus  describes  their 
interview  : — 


“ London,  December  29 th,  1823. 

“ My  dear  William, — I mentioned  to  you  a few  days 
since,  that  I had  seen  Banim.  I dined  with  him  on 
Thursday  ; there  were  Mrs.  Banim,  and  an  Irish 
gentleman,  and  we  had  a pleasant  evening  enough. 
He  had  read  ‘ Aguire  ’ twice.  He  went  over  it  scene 
by  scene  with  me,  and  pointed  out  all  the  passages 
he  disliked.  He  then  gave  me  his  candid  opinion, 
which  was,  that  after  making  those  alterations,  the 
play  ought  to  be  accepted,  and  to  succeed.  He  gave 
it  very  high  praise,  indeed,  especially  the  third  and 
fourth  acts,  which  he  said  could  not  be  better. 
Parts  of  the  others  he  found  fault  with.  The  piece 


132 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


would  not  suffer  by  the  loss  of  those  passages,  as  he 
thought  the  acts  too  long.  He  recommended  me  to 
persevere  in  writing  for  the  stage  ; and  if  I did  so, 
to  forswear  roses,  dewdrops  and  sunbeams  for  ever. 
The  fate  of  the  unfortunate  Vespers  of  Palermo  told 
me  this  before.  Poetry  is  not  listened  to  on  the  stage 
here.  I could  not,  on  the  whole,  have  expected 
Banim  to  act  a more  friendly  or  generous  part  than 
he  has  done.  On  the  second  day  I called  on  him 
(Saturday,)  he  made  me  stop  to  dinner.  I put  the 
direct  question  to  him,  whether,  from  what  he  had 
seen,  it  was  his  real  opinion  that  I should  be  successful 
as  a dramatist.  His  reply  was,  that  he  thought  I had 
every  claim  ; and  since  I had  dealt  so  candidly  with 
him,  he  advised  me  to  write  on,  and  that  he  would  do 
everything  for  any  piece  I wished  to  bring  forward, 
that  he  would  do  if  it  was  his  own.  With  respect 
to  the  present  piece,  he  advised  me  to  leave  it  in  * * *’s 
hands  until  he  sends  it  to  me,  and  not  to  call  or  write 
to  him.  If  he  knows  anything  of  him,  he  says  he 
will  keep  and  play  it.  I am  very  sorry  I did  not  see 
Banim  first.  In  that  case  I should  long  since  have 
known  its  fate,  as  he  could  have  procured  me  an 
answer  from  the  committee  in  ten  days.  With  re- 
gard to  his  present  views,  he  has  placed  me  on  my 
honor  not  to  breathe  a word  of  them  ; therefore,  on 
that  subject  I can  say  nothing  ; but  I may  talk  of 
the  ‘ Prodigal  Son/  as  I had  before  heard  of  it.  You 
recollect  I mentioned  the  coincidence  in  name  with  a 
play  of  mine.  I asked  him  about  it.  He  showed  me 
sketches  of  it  in  his  note-book.  The  story  is  the  same, 
and  the  scene  is  laid  in  the  same  place,  so  that  all  my 
fine  visions  are  knocked  on  the  head  there.  He  also 
lent  me  part  of  another  manuscript  tragedy  of  his,  which 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOIINlj&ANIM.  133 

will  come  out  at  Covent  Garden,  in  which  I found  the 
counterpart  of  my  character  of  Canabe.  Is  not  this 
vexatious?  But  enough  of  theatricals,  as  Lucy  calls 
them.  It  would  be  a great  advantage  to  me  if  I could 
keep  my  lodgings  for  some  time,  as  with  such  a friend  as 
Banim,  acquainted  in  the  first  literary  circles  in  London, 
and  willing  to  give  me  every  assistance  in  his  power, 
there  can  be  little  doubt  of  eventual  success.  He  is  in 
high  estimation  at  the  theatres,  and  says  he  will  procure 
me  an  answer  immediately  to  any  piece  I wish  to  pre- 
sent. He  has  lent  me  a new  French  tragedy,  which  was 
sent  him  by  Talma,  a very  fine  piece,  as  far  as  I have 
read.”  * 

Banim’s  regard  for  Griffin’s  interest  did  not  cease 
here.  The  letters  of  the  latter  are  everywhere  filled 
with  acknowledgments  of  Banim’s  kindness  towards 
him.  He  advised  him  in  his  literary  ventures.  Gerald 
writes  to  his  brother  William,  in  February  1824,  “ Banim 
is  very  kind  to  me.  On  my  calling  on  him,  he  urged 
me  to  alter  £ Aguire  ’ in  those  passages  he  pointed  out, 
and  told  me  that  he  still  persevered  in  his  opinions  of 
it : that  there  were  scenes  in  it,  which  for  stage  effect, 
and  every  requisite,  could  not  be  better.”  Again,  he 
writes  : “ I had  a visit  from  Banim  the  other  day. 
What  with  the  delays  and  disappointments  I have  met 
since  I came  here,  it  is  only  his  encouragement,  and  hi3 
friendship,  that  keep  hope  alive.”  “Banim’s  friendship 
I find  every  day  growing  more  ardent,  more  cordial  if 
possible.” 

Thus  this  true-souled  Irishman  acted.  He  did  not 

* See  “ Life  of  Gerald  Griffin,”  by  bis  Brother. 


134 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


fear  a rival.  He  suggests  improvements  in  Griffin’s 
plays  ; “ Banim  made  me  an  offer  the  other  day,  which 
will  be  of  more  immediate  advantage  than  the  tragedy, 
inasmuch  as  I need  not  abide  the  result.  He  desired 
me  to  write  a piece  for  the  English  Opera  House. 
When  I have  it  finished,  he  will  introduce  me  to  Mr. 
Arnold  of  Golden  Square,  the  proprietor,  who  is  his 
friend,  and  get  me  immediate  money  for  it  without 
waiting  its  performance.  Banim  offers  me  many 
introductions.  He  is  acquainted  with  Tom  Moore, 
Campbell,  Ugo  Foscolo,  and  others  of  celebrity.  What 
would  I have  done  if  I had  not  found  Banim  ? I should 
never  be  tired  of  talking  about  and  thinking  of  Banim . 
Mark  me!  he  is  a man — the  only  one  I have  met  since 
I have  left  Ireland , almost .” 

Whilst  thus  active  in  kindness  and  good  offices  to 
his  young  friend,  Banim  was  pushing  his  own  way  in 
the  world.  He  had  become  the  chief  adviser  of  Thomas 
Arnold,  the  proprietor  of  the  English  Opera  House, 
and  contributed  many  operatic  pieces  to  the  establish- 
ment. These  were  but  the  things  of  an  hour  and  are 
now  forgotten  ; but  to  the  close  of  his  connection  with 
Mr.  Arnold  he  found  him  liberal,  honorable,  and  a 
steady  friend. 

He  had  commenced,  in  1823,  the  composition  of  his 
intended  novel,  and  had  written  to  Michael,  urging  him 
to  hasten  the  completion  of  his  story,  which  was,  as  had 
been  agreed  upon,  to  form  a portion  of  the  volumes. 
Michael  had  little  time  to  devote  to  literary  pursuits. 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


185 


From  morning  till  night  he  was  engaged  behind  his 
father’s  counter,  and  in  literary  composition  he  had  had, 
since  leaving  school,  no  practice  beyond  drawing  up  a 
business  account,  or  writing  a letter  to  John.  But  John 
had  praised  his  talent  as  a story-teller  ; had  asked 
him  to  write  a tale  for  the  forthcoming  work  ; and  as 
John,  a judge  of  those  things — a literary  man  himself — 
had  approved  his  efforts  thus,  he  determined  to  make 
the  required  attempt. 

But  how  was  the  attempt  to  be  made  ? He  could  not 
start  from  a customer  to  write  down  the  thought  of  the 
moment  ; but  when  did  genius  ever  fail  in  expedient  ? 
Michael  Banim  had  naturally  a good  memory  ; his  story 
was  one  founded  on  facts  ; and  accordingly  whilst  he 
was  behind  the  counter,  with  busy  hands  discharging 
all  the  multifarious  duties  of  a shopman  in  a country 
town,  his  fancy  was  busily  at  work,  weaving  the  scenes 
of  his  narrative,  and  when  he  retired  to  his  room  at 
night,  he  committed  the  already  formed  scenes  to  paper, 
and  the  early  morning  generally  found  him  clothing 
his  thoughts  in  words,  and  thus  the  powerful  story, 
entitled  “Crohoore  of  the  Bill  Hook,”  was  composed 
and  written. 

The  first  portion  of  the  manuscript  was  transmitted 
to  John  for  perusal  late  in  the  year  1823.  By  return 
of  post,  a letter  of  praise  and  thanks  was  written  to 
Michael,  and  entreaties  for  more  were  pressingly  urged. 
The  progress  of  the  composition  was  necessarily  slow, 
but  scrap  by  scrap  it  was  forwarded  ; and,  as  had  been 


136 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


agreed  upon,  John’s  portion  of  the  works, — “ The 
Fetches  ” and  “ John  Doe,” — was  sent  to  Michael,  each 
brother  acting  as  critic  to  the  other,  and  thus  the  nom 
de  plume,  “ Tales  by  the  O’Hara  Family,”  was  in  every 
point  a reality — John  taking  the  name  Abel  O’Hara, 
Michael  assuming  that  of  Barnes  O’Hara. 

The  brothers  commenced  their  joint  tales  in  1823, 
and  during  the  succeeding  twelve  months,  John’s  letters 
are  chiefly  devoted  to  criticism  upon  his  own  and  his 
brother’s  contributions  to  the  series.  Amongst  these 
letters,  the  following  is  the  most  important.  It  extends 
to  fourteen  pages  of  very  closely  written  letter  paper, 
and  in  our  mind  contains  the  whole  principle  of  the 
novelist’s  art.  It  is  valuable  not  alone  to  the  young 
novelist,  as  teaching  him  how  to  write,  but  it  is  equally 
useful  to  the  critic  and  to  the  reader,  as  it  teaches  them 
how  to  judge  and  how  to  appreciate.  It  was  carefully 
considered ; and  although  commenced  on  the  2d  of 
May,  1824,  was  not  concluded  until  the  4th  of  June 
following.  It  should  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  letter 
is  not  a didactic  essay,  but  a friendly  communication 
addressed  to  Michael,  and  is  meant  to  convey  true 
principles  rather  than  to  exhibit  a finished  style.  The 
letter  is  remarkable  also  as  being  the  production  of  a 
man  only  in  his  twenty-sixth  year,  yet  showing  a knowl- 
edge of  the  sources  of  all  the  secrets  of  construction 
which  have  rendered  the  novels  of  Scott  and  Galt  so 
famous,  because  so  life-like. 

This  letter,  too,  is  important,  as  it  gives  the  writer’s 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


137 


impressions  of  his  literary  brethren.  He  had  fallen 
into  the  common  error  of  supposing,  or  assuming,  that 
literary  men  are  exactly  what  their  peculiar  styles  of 
composition  might  lead  one  to  suppose  them  : just  as 
many  visitors  of  the  theatre  assume  the  tragedian  to 
be  a grave,  austere  man ; and  fancy  the  comedian  is  all 
fun  and  jokes,  when  in  the  quietude  of  private  life. 

The  passage  in  the  letter  which  refers  to  Washington 
Irving  is  extremely  interesting,  as  it  shows  that  the 
opinion  formed  by  Banim  of  his  goodness  of  heart,  in 
1824,  was  fully  supported  by  the  testimony  recorded 
by  Moore  in  1821.  Banim  writes  : — “ I have  had  op- 
portunities of  coming  into  close*  contact  with  Geoffrey 
Crayon  ; he  is  natural  as  his  sketches — a man  ivho  would 
play  luith  a child  on  a carpet  .” 

How  exquisitely  this  passage,  in  italics,  supports  an 
entry  in  Moore’s  “ Diary,”  relating  to  Irving.  Moore 
and  “ Bessy”  have  resolved,  in  the  year  1821,  whilst 
residing  near  Paris,  to  give  a children’s  ball  in  honor 
of  “ little  Tom’s  ” birth-day.  The  children,  in  dancing, 
have  shaken  the  floor  in  some  parts  of  the  room,  and 
what  follows  is  thus  described  by  Moore  : — 

“ Our  dance  to  the  pianoforte  was  very  gay,  and  not 
the  less  so,  for  the  floor  giving  way  in  sundry  places  ; 
a circle  of  chalk  was  drawn  round  one  hole,  Dr. 
Younge  was  placed  sentry  over  another,  and  whenever 
there  was  a new  crash,  the  general  laugh  at  the  heavy 
foot  that  produced  it  caused  more  merriment  than  the 
solidest.  floor  in  Paris  could  have  given  birth  to.  Sand- 


138 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BAN1M, 


wiches,  negus,  and  champagne  crowned  the  night,  and 
we  did  not  separate  until  four  in  the  moring.  Irving's 
humor  began  to  break  out  as  the  floor  broke  in,  and  he  was 
much  more  himself  then  ever  I have  seen  him''  * 

The  letter  is  as  follows  : — 


“ London,  May  2d,  1824. 

“ My  dear  Michael, — I have  read  attentively,  and  with 
the  greatest  pleasure,  the  portion  of  the  tale  you  sent 

me  by  J.  H- . So  far  as  it  goes,  I pronounce,  that 

you  have  been  successful.  Here  and  there,  I have 
marked  such  particular  criticisms  as  struck  me,  and 
them  you  may  note  by  referring  to  the  margin.  I send 
you  the  MSS.  of  my  tnle,  and  I request  your  severest 
criticisms  ; scratch,  cut  and  condemn  at  your  pleasure. 
This  is  the  first  copy.  Looking  over  it,  I perceive  many 
parts  that  are  bad  ; send  it  back  when  you  can,  with 
every  suggestion  you  are  capable  of  making.  Read  it 
for  the  whole  family  in  solemn  conclave.  Let  father, 
mother,  Joanna  and  yourself  sit  in  judgment  on  it,  and 
send  me  all  your  opinions  sincerely  given. 

“I  have  met  some  eminent  literary  characters  lately, 
and  many,  of  whom  I had  formed  high  notions,  fall  far 
short  of  my  expectations. 

“ I will  say  no  more  about  these  ; and  at  your  peril 
keep  my  gossip  to  yourself.  Hap ! hap  ! it  is  dangerous 
to  meddle  with  edged  tools  ; a chip  from  an  angry 
homme  de  lettres,  would  cut  deep. 

“ I have  had  opportunities  of  coming  into  close  contact 
with  Geoffrey  Crayon  ; he  is  as  natural  as  his  sketches 
— a man  who  would  play  with  a child  on  the  carpet, 

* See  “Memoirs,  Journal  and  Correspondence  of  Thomas  Moore.”  Edited  by 
the  Right  Hon.  Lord  John  Russell.  Vol.  III.  p.  213. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


139 


and  one  of  the  few  litterateurs  I have  known  whose  face 
and  character  are  in  sincere  keeping  with  his  talents. 

“I  have  found,  that  to  write  fine  and  enthusiastic 
passages  in  a book — to  deify  virtue  and  honor,  and  melt 
with  pathos— it  is  not  always  necessary  to  have  a heart. 
Genius  is  frequently  the  artificer  ; mimicking  rich  feel- 
ings and  warmth  of  soul,  while  the  writer  may  be  cold 
and  vicious.  Put  it  out  of  your  head,  that  genius  and 
worth  always  go  hand  in  hand  ; the  reverse  it  has 
been  my  lot  to  know,  alas ! too  often. 

“ To  turn  again  to  your  tale.  Two  of  the  personages 
do  not  stand  out  sufficiently  from  the  canvas.  Aim  at 
distinctness  and  at  individuality  of  character.  Open 
Shakespeare,  and  read  a play  of  his,  then  turn  to  the 
list  of  dramatis  personae , and  see  and  feel  wThat  he  has 
done  in  this  way. 

“ Of  a dozen  characters,  each  is  himself  alone.  Look 
about  you  ; bring  to  mind  the  persons  you  have  known, 
call  them  up  before  you  ; select  and  copy  them.  Never 
give  a person  an  action  to  do,  who  is  not  a legible 
individual.  Make  that  a rule,  and  I think  it  ought  to 
be  a primary  rule  with  novel  writers. 

“ Suppose  one  was  to  get  a sheet  of  paper  ; draw  up 
thereon  a list  of  persons,  and  after  their  names,  write 
down  what  kind  of  human  beings  they  shall  be,  leav- 
ing no  two  alike,  and  not  one  generalised  or  undrawn. 
After  Shakespeare,  Scott  is  the  great  master-hand  of 
character,  and  hence,  one  of  his  sources  of  great  power. 
To  show  you  clearly  what  I mean  ; not  a creature  we 
ever  met  in  our  father’s  penetralia,  resembled  the  other. 
There  might  be  somewhat  of  a conventional,  outward 
similarity,  arising  from  their  pursuits,  habits,  and  amuse- 
ments being  similar  ; but  each  was,  notwithstanding, 
distinct. 


140 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


“I  think  that  in  writing  a tale,  every  character  in 
it  should  be  drawn  from  nature.  It  is  impossible  all 
should  be  absolute  originals.  Human  nature  being  the 
same,  in  all  ages  and  in  all  climes,  it  cannot  be  hoped 
now-a-days  that  a writer  can  be  the  discoverer  of  a 
new  character.  It  can  be  no  more  than  the  same 
dough,  somewhat  differently  shaped.  Habits  of  country, 
habits  of  station,  habits  of  any  kind,  will  diversify;  but 
human  nature  is  the  same  now  that  it  ever  was.  I say 
one  can  scarcely  draw  an  orginal  character ; but  I say, 
draw  like  nature  ; no  matter  what  kind  of  nature  you 
draw  from,  provided  that  the  likeness  be  not  that  of  a 
disgusting  object.  After  all,  there  is  nothing  common- 
place in  nature. 

“ Since  I am  on  this,  I may  as  well  tell  you  how,  as  I 
think,  character  ought  to  be  marked.  Apart  from  pro- 
priety of  language  and  thought,  fit  words  and  fit  ideas 
for  each  person,  (and  by  the  way  lift  up  both  your 
hands,  and  wonder  how  Shakespeare  makes  his  people 
walk  before  you  without  any  other  means,)  character 
can  be  indited  by  portraits  of  the  face  and  person, 
with  allusion  to  the  expression  and  conformation  of 
both  ; by  painting  dress,  by  describing  gait,  motion, 
gesticulation,  and  by  the  tone  of  the  voice  sometimes. 
I here  purposely  omit  the  downright  easy  way  of  tell- 
ing us  at  once,  that  a man  is  a good,  or  a wicked  fellow. 
If  you  sharpen  your  eye  and  ear  on  these  points — • 
I see  you  are  pretty  sharp  already — you  can,  either 
from  your  recollections,  or  present  and  future  study, 
in  society,  and  among  men  and  women,  every  hour  in 
the  day,  gain  truth,  and  conviction,  and  pleasure. 

“ If  either  of  us  could  only  delineate  the  peculiarities 
we  daily  witness  in  those  we  meet,  success  would  be  the 
result.  All  will  appreciate  a likeness  ; and  the  artist 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


141 


who  can  convince  every  beholder,  that  he  has  transferred 
to  his  canvas,  each  peculiar  mark  of  the  individual  he 
paints,  will  be  praised,  and  he  deserves  it. 

“ For  example,  only  draw  well  for  me  in  a novel, 

little  round-paunched,  puffing  Kogerson  M , who 

used  to  lament  so  pathetically  over  the  hardships  of 
a soldier’s  life,  when  as  a member  of  his  yeomanry 
corps  he  was  ordered  to  mount  guard.  Give  me  the 
clinging  of  his  wife  and  daughters,  round  their  un- 
wieldy, asthmatic  warrior,  as  he  issued  forth,  to  sit 
all  night  before  a good  fire  in  the  tholsel  of  Kilkenny, 
and  drink  his  punch  to  give  him  valor.  No  enemy 
within  forty  miles  of  him,  and  he,  doughty  hero, 
physically  unable  to  raise  his  ponderous  musket  to 
his  shoulder,  were  twenty  rebel  pikes  coming  full  tilt 
against  his  wizend. 

“ Many  of  his  brothers  in  arms  occur  to  my  mind 

just  now.  Johnny  M , the  linen  draper,  who  bore 

no  good  will  to  the  house  of  Hanover,  ‘ being  Protest- 
ants,’ but  who,  to  escape  the  very  improbable  fate  of 
being  hanged  as  a papist  on  the  permanent  gallows 
at  the  gaol  door,  put  on  the  King’s  livery  and  groaned 
and  sweated  beneath  the  King’s  firelock  — Johnny 

M , whose  ‘ quick  march  ’ was  a gouty  trot,  and  who 

would  not,  in  obedience  to  orders,  or  by  persuasion, 
put  a bullet  into  his  gun,  lest,  in  his  own  words,  c it 
might  hurt  somebody.’ 

“ Paint  for  me  to  the  life,  our  old  parish  priest, 
Father  O’Donnell,  hat,  wig,  jock  coat,  worsted  stock- 
ings, shoe-buckles,  as  he  appeared  and  spoke,  wThen 
he  patted  our  heads,  and  approved  of  our  proficiency 
in  catechism. 

“ Give  me  Tom  Guinn,  hat,  gaiters,  watch,  pipe,  and 
his  horn  tinder-box  ; his  peculiar  jokes,  his  frequent  big 


142 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


words,  and  liis  gurgling  laugh  at  his  own  conceits. 
For  a reckless  bully,  boy  and  man,  remember  Michael 
B : I might,  but  I will  not  here,  increase  the  list. 

“Get  fourteen  or  fifteen  of  any  of  the  persons  you 
ever  knew  ; put  them  into  scenes  favorable  to  their 
peculiarities,  their  individualities  can  be  exemplified, 
without  straining  after  the  point ; in  proper  situations, 
set  them  talking  for  themselves  ; by  their  own  word 
of  mouth,  they  will  denote  their  own  characters,  better 
than  any  description  from  your  pen  : thus  will  you 
dramatise  your  tale,  and  faithful  drama  is  the  life  and 
soul  of  novel- writing.  Plot  is  an  inferior  consideration 
to  drama,  though  still  it  is  a main  consideration. 

“ Do  not  say  that  I am  dictatorial,  or  that  I consider 
you  to  be  a subject  for  a drilling ; but  let  us  unaffect- 
edly compare  notes  as  often  as  we  can,  and  both  will 
be  benefited. 

“ This  long  letter  of  mine  is  a disjointed  affair,  taken 
up  from  time  to  time  as  I find  opportunity  ; all  the 
remarks  are  thrown  in  a hurried,  and,  of  course,  dis- 
arranged way  together,  but  you  will,  for  my  sake, 
endeavor  to  reduce  them  to  method. 

“A  few  words  more,  as  to  the  mode  of  studying  the 
art  of  novel- writing.  Bead  any  first-rate  production  of 
the  kind,  with  a note-book.  When  an  author  forces 
you  to  feel  with  him,  or  whenever  he  produces  a more 
than  ordinary  degree  of  pleasure,  or  when  he  startles 
you — stop  and  try  to  find  out  how  he  has  done  it ; 
see  if  it  be  by  dialogue,  or  by  picture,  or  by  de- 
scription, or  by  action.  Fully  comprehend  his  method 
— his  means  for  the  effect,  and  note  it  down.  Write 
down  all  such  impressions.  Enumerate  these,  and 
see  how  many  go  to  make  the  combined  interest  of 
one  book.  Observe,  by  contrasting  characters,  how  ho 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


113 


keeps  up  the  balance  of  the  familiar  and  the  marvel- 
lous, humorous,  serious,  and  romantic. 

“ This  would  not  be  imitation,  it  would  be  study ; 
what,  I will  venture  to  say,  great  men  have  done  with 
their  predecessors  — what  painters  do  in  the  study  of 
their  art.” 

Whilst  thus  directing  his  brother,  he  was  anxiously 
engaged  in  various  literary  employments,  and  all  his 
leisure  was  given  up  to  the  construction  and  composi- 
tion of  his  portion  of  the  tales.  His  wife’s  health  was 
still  very  weak,  and  was  a cause  of  constant  anxiety. 
He  had,  as  his  own  ailments  decreased,  commenced 
anew  that  overtaxing  mental  labor  which  had  before 
affected  him  so  disastrously, — and  again  the  pains  of 
head  and  limbs  returned,  and  once  more  he  "was 
forced  to  lay  aside  his  pen  : on  this  occasion  however, 
the  attack,  although  fully  as  violent  as  either  of  the 
former,  was  not  of  so  long  continuance,  and  when 
again  at  his  desk,  he  was  gay  and  hopeful  as  ever, 
— and  he  wrote  to  his  father  thus  : — “ I am  snug : 
calculating  like  a spider  in  his  corner.”  An  unlucky 
simile  by  the  way,  in  every  respect — save  the  curious 
perseverance  of  the  insect. 

This  illness  had,  like  the  other  attacks,  rendered 
him,  as  he  said,  “tight;”  but  he  no  longer  thought 
of  seeking  a refuge  at  home,  as  his  reputation  was 
now  fully  established  with  the  publishers  of  serials  ; 
and  in  Arnold  he  had  a judicious,  yet  kind  friend. 
His  chief  care  still  arose  from  the  ill  health  of  his 


144 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


wife — and  hoping  that  this  might  pass  away,  and  that 
with  time  he  might,  by  his  own  genius,  gain  a compe- 
tency sufficient  for  the  support  of  all  whom  he  loved, 
he  wrote  the  following  letter  to  Michael ; it  is  credit- 
able not  alone  to  the  writer,  but  to  all  whose  names 
are  mentioned  in  it : — 


“ London,  June  2nd,  1824. 

“My  dear  Michael, — My  poor  Ellen  is  improving. 
My  anxiety  is  principally  on  her  account,  and  she  repays 
me  by  affection.  I always  thought,  that  if  knapsacked 
with  a responsiblity,  I would  not  be  deaf  or  negligent  to 
or  of  my  duties,  and  I trust  I have  proved  that  this 
opinion  of  myself  was  not  self-flattery. 

“That  my  dear  Ellen,  and  my  dear  Joanna,  should 
live  together  in  love  and  unity,  is  my  great  wish  and  my 
hope  too.  To  see  them  working,  or  reading,  or  making 
their  womanly  fuss  near  me,  and  under  my  roof,  and 
mutually  tolerating  and  helping  each  other,  and  never 
talking  loud  ; and  my  mother,  my  dear,  dear  mother, 
sitting  in  her  arm-chair  looking  at  them,  with  her 
old-times  placid  smile  ; and  my  father  and  you  doing 
whatever  you  liked.  Tush ! Perhaps  this  is  foolish  and 
Utopian  of  me.  Yet  we  must  live  together  : that  is 
the  blessed  truth.  Such  a set  of  people  were  not  born 
to  dwell  asunder.  And,  perhaps,  the  old  times  would 
come  back  again  after  all.  What  is  the  reason,  I ask, 
that  after  a little  while  we  should  not  club  our  means, 
and  dwell,  as  Mr.  Owen  preaches,  in  one  big  house, 
every  mother’s  son  and  daughter  of  us  ; and  have  good 
feeling,  good  taste  and  economy  presiding  over  us? 
More  unlikely  things  have  happened.  After  the  world 
is  seen,  it  does  not  bear  to  be  gaped  at  every  day  ; and 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


145 


the  only  true  aim  of  a rational  creature  ought  to  be, 
humble  independence  on  any  scale,  and  the  interchange 
of  those  little  and  tireless  amiabilities,  that  in  a loving, 
and  virtuous,  and  temperate  circle,  make  life  indeed 
worth  living  for — to  me.  And  without  these,  life  is  a 
compulsion  ; a necessity  to  breathe  without  enjoyment — 
to  sweat  without  a reward.” 

These  longings  for  home  life  were  but  day  dreams  : 
the  visions  of  that  cloud-land  future  of  which  we  all,  at 
times,  catch  glimpses,  but  into  whose  happy  valley  we 
seldom  enter. 

Although  these  intended  kindnesses  to  his  family  were 
but  things  of  the  future,  there  were  kindnesses  of  the 
present  to  be  performed,  and  of  these  Griffin  was  still 
the  object.  They  were  fast  friends,  and  Banim  consulted 
him  frequently  upon  the  merits  and  demerits  of  the 
tales,  as  the  brothers  proceeded  in  the  work  ; and  yet  a 
coldness,  for  a time,  checked  the  growth  of  their  friend- 
ship, and  might  have  destroyed  it  for  ever,  but  that 
each  was  good  and  true  in  heart.  It  was  not  a quar- 
rel, rather  a misunderstanding  commencing  through 
some  apparent  slight  done  to  Banim,  and  increased  by 
Griffin’s  morbid  delicacy,  and  horror  of  patronage.  Of 
the  causes  of  this  misunderstanding  we  gather  the  facts 
from  the  following  extracts  from  various  letters  appear- 
ing in  Griffin’s  Life  by  his  brother  : — 

“ The  looking  for  lodgings,  for  an  engagement,  and 
several  other  matters  took  up  my  time  so  entirely,  that 
I was  compelled  to  break  an  appointment  I had  made 


146 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


with  Banim  that  I would  call  on  him  for  a particular 
purpose — to  have  my  criticism,  as  he  did  me  the  honor 
to  say,  on  a work  which  he  is  sending  to  the  press,  and 
which,  so  far  as  I have  read,  is  really  a delightful  per- 
formance. The  consequence  was,  when  I did  call,  it  had 
been  sent  off,  and  though  his  manner  was  as  friendly  as 
ever,  I could  see  that  what  he  considered  the  neglect 
had  somewhat  cooled  him.  I could  not  explain  then, 
and  I perceived  that  he  thought  the  apology  I did  make, 
a very  lame  one  indeed.  However,  I did  explain  after 
nearly  three  weeks’  absence,  and  received  two  or  three 
days  since  a letter  full  of  kindness  and  friendship ; in 
short,  everything  that  I could  wish.  I should  almost 
like  to  transcribe  part  of  it  here  ; it  would  so  fully  show 
you  what  manner  of  man  he  is.”  In  another  letter  of 
a later  date  he  says  : “ You  ask  me  of  my  dramatic 
prospects.  I have  done  nothing — I could  do  nothing 
in  them  while  I was  prevented  from  calling  on  Banim — 
my  kind,  my  true  friend — which  I have  not  done  these 
two  months.  The  restraint  in  this  instance  is  absolute 
torture  to  me,  when  I consider  what  a cold  return  I 
must  appear  to  make  to  his  most  friendly  and  pressing 
invitations.  Since  I wrote  last  I have  heard  or  seen 
nothing  of  him.”  “ I cannot  tell  you  here  the  many, 

many  instances  in  which  Banim  has  shown  his  friend- 
* 

ship  since  I wrote  last ; let  it  suffice  to  say,  that  he  is 
the  sincerest,  heartiest,  most  disinterested  being  that 
breathes.  His  fire-side  is  the  only  one  where  I enjoy 
anything  like  social  life,  or  home.  I go  out  occasionally 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


147 


in  an  evening,  and  talk  or  read  for  some  Lours  ; or  have 
a bed  and  leave  next  day.” 

So  far  we  can  understand  the  kindness  of  Banim,  and 
Griffin’s  hearty  appreciation  of  it ; but  when  the  latter 
had  been,  as  he  states,  two  months  absent  from  Bromp- 
ton  Grove,  Banim  thought  that  some  serious  obstacle 
must  have  interposed  to  cause  so  long  an  estrangement. 
He  accordingly  sought  Griffin’s  residence,  and  with 
much  difficulty  discovered  it- — “ a small  room  in  some 
obscure  court  near  St.  Paul’s.”  Griffin  was  out  : Banim 
called  again  next  day,  and  with  no  better  success  ; and 
upon  questioning  the  landlady  as  to  the  apparent  cir- 
cumstances of  her  lodger,  he  was  shocked  at  finding 
that  Griffin  was  badly  dressed,  still  more  poorly  fed,  in 
low  spirits,  and  rarely  going  abroad  by  day,  fearing  to 
encounter  his  acquaintances  in  his  pitiable  condition. 
It  was  low  enough,  and  Gerald  afterwards,  in  a letter 
to  his  father  and  mother,  described  its  horrors 

“ It  was  then  that  I set  about  writing  for  those  weekly 
publications  ; all  of  wThich,  except  the  Literary  Gazette, 
cheated  me  abominably.  Then,  finding  this  to  be  the 
case,  I wrote  for  the  great  magazines.  My  articles  were 
generally  inserted  ; but  on  calling  for  payment — seeing 
that  I was  a poor,  inexperienced  devil,  there  was  so 
much  shuffling  and  shabby  work  that  it  disgusted  me, 
and  I gave  up  the  idea  of  making  money  that  way. 
I now  lost  heart  for  everything  ; got  into  the  cheapest 
lodgings  I could  make  out,  and  there  worked  on,  rather 
to  divert  my  mind  from  the  horrible  gloom  that  I felt 


148 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


growing  on  me  in  spite  of  myself,  than  with  the  hope 
of  being  remunerated.  This,  and  the  recollection  of 
the  expense  I had  put  William  to,  and  the  fears — that 
every  moment  became  conviction — that  I should  never 
be  enabled  to  fulfil  his  hopes  or  my  own  expectations’ 
all  came  pressing  together  upon  my  mind  and  made  me 
miserable.  A thousand  and  a thousand  times  I wished 
that  I could  lie  down  quietly  and  die  at  once,  and  be 
forgotten  for  ever.  But  that,  however,  was  not  to  be 
had  for  the  asking.  I don’t  think  I left  anything  un- 
done that  could  have  changed  the  course  of  affairs,  or 
brought  me  a little  portion  of  the  good  luck  that  was 
going  on  about  me  ; but  good  luck  was  too  busy  else- 
where. I can  hardly  describe  to  you  the  state  of  mind 
I was  in  at  this  time.  It  was  not  an  indolent  despond- 
ency, for  I was  working  hard,  and  I am  now — and  it  is 
only  now — receiving  money  for  the  labor  of  those  dread- 
ful hours.  I used  not  to  see  a face  that  I knew,  and 
after  sitting  writing  all  day,  when  I walked  in  the  streets 
in  the  evening,  it  actually  seemed  to  me  as  if  I was  of  a 
different  species  altogether  from  the  people  about  me.”* 
These  painful  circumstances  were  sufficient  to  sour 
the  mind  of  any  man  ; and  doubtless  Griffin  looked 
on  all  the  world  around  him  with  disgust,  whilst 
Banim,  rising  in  fame,  saw — as  indeed  he  ever  saw 
save  when  racked  by  pain — only  the  bright  side  of 
life.  He  returned  to  Brompton  Grove,  from  the  poor 
lodging  of  his  friend ; he  wrote  to  him  kindly  and 

* Life  of  Gerald  Griffin.  By  his  Brother. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


149 


openly,  yet  delicately,  offering  pecuniary  aid  freely,  as 
lie  had  already  offered  and  given  the  assistance  of  his 
counsel  and  of  his  influence,  and  Gerald,  the  kindest, 
fondest,  most  patient  soul,  among  all  the  suffering, 
enduring  thousands  of  the  great  struggling  city  in 
which  he  lived,  was  so  warped  from  his  own  proper 
self,  as  to  reply  coldly  and  abruptly,  and  with  a 
harsh  refusal,  to  an  offer  which  sprang,  as  he  then 
thought,  from  pragmatic  and  impertinent  officiousness. 
The  coolness  was,  however,  but  for  the  day  : Griffin 
hardly  knew  why  he  deemed  himself  offended.  As 
his  biographer  writes  : — “ It  seems  to  have  been  a 
mystery  even  to  himself,  if  we  may  judge  by  the 
following  introductory  sonnet  to  £ Suil  Dhuv, 5 one  of 
the  ‘ Tales  of  the  Munster  Festivals,’  in  which  he 
evidently  alludes  to  it.  There  is  something  affecting  in 
the  little  pleading  allusion  he  makes  to  his  struggles 
and  ill  success,  and  in  the  humble  confessing  spirit 
in  which  the  sonnet  is  written.  It  would  appear,  too, 
from  the  first  of  those  passages  which  I have  marked 
by  italics,  that  there  was  nothing  in  Mr.  Banim’s 
manner  of  conferring  the  favor,  that  in  Gerald’s  opinion 
could  at  all  justify  the  mode  of  its  rejection  : — 


i. 

“I  hold  not  out  my  hand  in  grateful  love, 

Because  ye  were  my  friend,  where  friends  were  few, 
Nor  in  the  pride  of  conscious  truth,  to  prove 

The  heart  ye  wronged  and  doubted  yet  was  true — 
It  is  that  while  the  close  and  blinding  veil, 


150 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


That  youth  and  blissful  ignorance  had  cast 
Around  mine  inward  sight,  is  clearing  fast 
Before  its  strengthening  vision — while  the  scale 
Falls  from  mine  eye-balls,  and  the  gloomy  stream 
Of  human  motive,  whitening  in  my  view, 

Shows  clear  as  dew  shdwers  in  the  grey  morn  beam, 
While  hearts  and  acts,  whose  impulse  seemed  divine, 
Put  on  the  grossness  of  an  earthlier  hue, 

I still  can  gaze  and  deeply  still  can  honor  thine. 


n. 

Judge  not  your  friend  by  what  he  seemed,  when  Fate 
Had  crossed  him  in  his  chosen — cherished  aim. 

When  spirit-broken — baffled — moved  to  hate 
The  very  kindness  that  but  made  his  shame 
More  self -induced,  he  rudely  turned  aside 
In  bitter,  hopeless  agony  from  all, 

Alike,  of  those  who  mocked  or  mourned  his  fall, 

And  fenced  his  injured  heart  in  lonely  pride. 

Wayward  and  sullen  as  suspicion’s  soul, 

T&  his  own  mind  he  lived  a mystery — 

But  now  the  heavens  have  changed,  the  vapors  roll 
Far  from  his  heart ; and  in  his  solitude, 

While  the  fell  night-mares  of  his  spirit  flee, 

He  wakes  to  weave  for  thee  a tale  of  joy  renewed.” 

"Whilst  these  events  were  occurring,  Banim  had 
disappointments,  and  sources  of  uneasiness,  quite  as 
depressing  as  those  which  surrounded  Griffin.  His 
tragedy,  “The  Prodigal,”  had  been  accepted  at  Drury 
Lane  Theatre  early  in  the  year  1823  ; the  parts  had 
been  cast,  and-  it  was  supposed  that  the  great  Ed- 
mund Kean  was  satisfied  with  his  character  in  the 
peice.  Such,  however,  was  not  the  fact : Kean  had 
grown  fastidious  in  his  parts,  and  thus  it  became  a 
matter  of  impossibility  to  produce  the  piece  at  Drury 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


1.51 


Lane ; and  Banim,  being  unwilling  to  risk  its  success 
with  less  able  performers,  withdrew  it  from  the  hands 
of  the  manager,  and  it  was  never  afterwards  offered 
for  representation.  He  thus  states  the  causes  of  its 
non-production,  in  a letter  to  his  father  and  mother  ; 
and  it  is  worthy  of  notice,  that  even  with  the  depressing 
fact  before  him — that  his  play  was  unacted,  not  through 
want  of  merit,  but  because  the  chief  performer  wrangled 
about  his  part, — the  letter  is  in  the  following  uncom- 
plaining style  : — 


“London,  June  1 6th,  1824. 

“My  dear  Father  and  Mother, — Since  I had  the 
pleasure  to  write  you  some  account  of  my  theatrical 
progress,  other  revolutions  have  come  round. 

“Mr.  Kean,  after  accepting  his  part  in  my  tragedy 
of  ‘ The  Prodigal/  and  attending  with  the  other  per- 
formers to  two  readings,  has  declared  that  he  will 
appear  in  no  new  play  that  does  not  give  him  one 
superior  character.  Such  is  the  statement  made  to 
me  ; whether  it  be  true,  or ‘but  partially  true,  I cannot 
positively  determine. 

“After  some  difficulty  I have  succeeded  in  withdraw- 
ing the  play  from  the  hands  of  Mr.  Elliston  of  Drury 
Lane,  and  expect  to  have  it  brought  out  at  Covent 
Garden,  the  two  principal  characters  to  be  played  by 
Charles  Kemble  and  Mr.  Young.  In  better  hands  they 
could  not  be. 

“ I could  give  you  a specimen  of  green-room  jealous- 
ies and  contentions,  that  might  be  amusing,  and  I may 
do  so  at  some  other  time.” 

« 

A letter  was  brought  to  Michael  by  the  same  post 


152 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BAN1M. 


which  bore  the  last,  and  in  it  Banim  thus  relates  the  D1 
success  of  Sheridan  Knowles’s  play,  “Caius  Gracchus,* 
and  recounts  the  difficulty  which  he  himself  experienced 
in  obtaining  the  manuscript  of  “ The  Prodigal  ” from 
Elliston. 


“London,  June  lbth,  1824. 

“ My  dear  Michael, — c Caius  Gracchus*  did  not  deserve 
its  fate.  The  author,  as  I learn,  submitted  to  have  his 
production  cooked  in  the  green-room,  and  after  the 
cookery  it  was  ‘ dished  * — to  use  a cant  word,  signifying 
that  it  had  been  made  unpalatable. 

“ I called  on  the  manager  for  my  MS.  c Oh  ! yes,  yes, 
certainly,  * he  said,  £ to-morrow  ; don’t  for  the  hie  of 
me  know  where  to  lay  hand  on  it.  But  to-morrow. ’ 
On  the  morrow,  accompanied  by  a friend,  I met  Mr. 

E n ; he  expressed  a willingness  to  give  up  the  play, 

cbut  really,  and  indeed,  did  not  look  it  out  since.’ 
'Then  don’t  trouble  yourself,’  I said,  CI  have  another 
copy,  somewhere.  I think  I can  find  that  ’ — ‘ Oh ! for 
the  world,  would  not  give  you  such  a job — I’ll  send  it 
to-morrow.’  I walked  off,  and  made  another  perfect 
copy,  which  I have  now  ready  for  Co  vent  Garden.” 

The  play  was  not  produced  at  Covent  Garden  ; and 
though  it  was  considered  by  those  who  read  it  as  the 
most  admirable  of  all  Banim’s  dramatic  pieces,  though 
he  appears  to  have  prized  it  highly  himself,  preserving 
it  with  especial  care,  even  to  within  a few  months  of 
his  death  ; yet,  after  a most  careful  and  anxious  search 
amongst  his  papers,  no  trace  of  it  can  now  be  discovered. 

He  still  worked  closely  at  the  Irish  stories  ; and  con- 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


153 


tinuaUy  incited  Michael  to  hasten  with  his  portion. 
He  criticised,  advised,  and  encouraged  the  latter,  and 
as  a specimen  of  the  style  in  which  these  letters  were 
written,  we  insert  the  following  : — - 

“ London,  July  10 th,  1824. 

“My  dear  Mike, — I think  I recognise  your  tithe- 
proctor,  Peery  Clancey  ; the  portrait  is  so  accurate  I 
could  not  mistake  the  gentleman.  Your  next  door 
neighbor,  Mickle  Kyan,  is  your  original,  and  you  have 
not  outstepped  nature,  or  misrepresented  facts,  in  the 
slightest  degree. 

“You  have  given  some  of  my  people  a good  castiga- 
tion ; you  have  frightened  me  in  fact,  and  almost  made 
me  hopeless  of  them.  Don’t  spare  one  of  them  how- 
ever— better  you  should  deal  with  them  than  critics  of 
less  bowels  or  humanity. 

“ You  must  adopt  my  amendment.  The  woman,  sing- 
ing the  keenthecawn,  must  be  the  mother  of  Terence, 
not  his  wife  ; kill  his  wife — I decree  her  death  ; by 
slaying  her,  you  give  a very  rational  increased  incentive 
to  the  wretched  widower’s  thirst  for  vengeance. 

“ You  tell  me  you  intend  to  cut  off  the  proctor’s  ears  : 
slice  them  close  to  his  head  by  all  means  ; do  not  leave 
a shred  ; no  honest  man  will  say  that  he  does  not  de- 
serve the  cropping.” 

His  wife’s  ill  health,  and  a slight  attack  of  his  own 
pains,  were  again  pressing  upon  his  slender  resources  ; 
and  being  unwilling  to  delay  his  task — the  completion 
of  the  tales — by  entering  into  any  new  engagements 
with  publishers,  he  earnestly  and  anxiously  endeav- 
ored to  discover  some  means  by  which  his  purse  might 


154 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


be  replenished  speedily,  without  much  labor  or  delay. 
His  last  sovereign  had  dwindled  to  half  ; his  credit  he 
did  not  wish  to  test,  and  with  ideas  quickened,  by  what 
John  Taylor  quaintly  calls,  “ Wit’s  whetstone,  Want,”  he 
resolved  to  correct,  and  offer  to  the  publishers,  a series 
of  miscellaneous  essays  which  he  had  from  time  to  time 
composed,  and  which  now  swelled  to  the  proportions 
of  an  octavo  volume.  He  arranged  the  manuscript  for 
inspection  in  a few  hours,  and  early  the  following  morn- 
ing set  out  in  search  of  a purchaser.  He  valued  the 
papers  lightly,  and  his  hope  of  finding  a publisher  will- 
ing to  buy  them  was  almost  forlorn.  Mrs.  Banirn  spent 
that  lonely  day  in  anxious  expectation  of  his  return.  At 
length,  late  in  the  evening,  he  entered  their  little  draw- 
ing-room. He  looked  weary  and  despondent,  and  seat- 
ing himself  by  his  wife’s  side  he  gazed  mournfully  in 
her  sad  face  : he  drew  her  towards  him,  kissed  her 
tenderly,  but  spoke  not  a word.  She  feared  to  question ; 
but  after  he  had  sat  in  silence  for  a minute,  he  sprang 
from  his  seat,  crying,  “ Ellen,  my  darling,  hold  out  your 
dress  for  a present,”  and  in  a moment  he  threw  into 
her  lap  a shower  of  bright  clinking  guineas — and  kissing 
her  once  more,  whilst  his  eyes  laughed  out  in  all  the 
joy  of  his  heart’s  triumph,  he  cried,  “There,  Ellen, 
there  are  thirty  guineas,  the  price  of  the  essays.” 

The  essays  thus  opportunely  disposed  of  were  pub- 
lished in  1824,  in  one  volume,  by  Simpkin  and  Mar- 
shall, and  bore  no  author’s  name  ; they  were  entitled 
“Revelations  of  the  Dead-Alive,”  and  extended  to  37G 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


155 


pages.  In  tlie  first  chapter,  the  rather  odd  title  of  the 
book  is  thus  explained.  The  writer  states  himself  to 
possess  the  power  of  sleeping  at  will  for  lengthened 
periods,  and  during  these  periods  to  possess  the  faculty 
of,  as  it  were,  going  out  of  himself ; a species  of  self- 
acting clairvoyance.  He  has  been  enabled  by  a peculiar 
American  root,  to  extend  the  periods  of  sleep  to  a 
length  much  beyond  that  which,  ijnaided  by  its  power, 
he  could  accomplish.  After  a slumber  of  one  hundred 
and  ninety-eight  days  and  a quarter,  he  is  enabled  to 
relate,  and  does  record  in  the  succeeding  chapters  of 
the  book,  the  events  of  one  hundred  and  ninety-eight 
years  and  a quarter ; or,  as  he  writes  : “ I was  dead  one 
hundred  and  ninety-eight  days  and  a quarter,  and  for 
every  day  I saw  a year  of  time,  so  that  when  I came 
to  life  again,  I had  observed  what  was,  and  is  to  be,  in 
the  lapse  of  one  hundred  and  ninety-eight  years  and 
a quarter,  a year  for  each  day  and  in  the  relation 
of  these  experiences  consist  the  “ Eevelations  of  the 
Dead-Alive.” 

The  “ Eevelations  ” are,  for  the  chief  part,  very  clever 
hits  at  the  follies,  fashions,  and  manners  of  the  year 
1823.  Amongst  the  fashions  of  that  period  was  a most 
absurd  reliance  on  the  system  of  Phrenology — then 
rendered  a very  imposing  question  by  Gall — which 
Banim  thus  satirizes  : — 

“ They  spoke  of  a gentleman  who  had  invented  a new  and  approved 
science  of  moral  physiognomy,  deduced  from  Messrs.  Spurzheim  and 
Gall ; and  deduced  I may  in  every  sense  say,  for,  leaving  them  in 


156 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


possession  of  the  head,  it  seized  on  the  feet ; thus,  perhaps,  pushing 
the  matter  to  extremities.  Mr.  Klapptrapp  made  the  cover  of  leather 
usually  worn  by  these  members,  equivalent  to  the  integument  of  the 
cranium  in  Mr.  GalPs  system,  and  hence  his  science  derived  its  name 
of  Ocreology.  Prior,  I believe,  bas  ingeniously  set  to  work  in  his 
smart  poem  of  Alma  Mater,  to  discover  the  residence  of  thought  in 
the  human  machine ; and,  if  I mistake  not,  traced  it  indifferently  to 
the  limbs.  Such  at  least  was  the  floating  recollection  in  my  mind, 
that,  at  the  first  mention  of  Mr.  Klapptrapp ’s  theory,  made  me  think 
something  might  come  of  it. 

“ Mr.  K’s  attention  was  first  seized  by  observing  that  after  a man 
has  worn  a boot  or  shoe  for  a considerable  time,  his  feet  give  it  a 
particular  set,  and  also  particular  markings,  that  raise  and  fix  the 
leather  at  certain  points  of  the  insteps  and  toes,  into  greater  or 
smaller  convexities : these  in  the  end  become  confirmed  on  the  out- 
ward surface,  so  that  when  the  shoe  or  boot  is  even  thrown  away  or 
cast  aside  for  ever,  they  keep  their  places  and  shapes.  The  varieties 
of  bumps  thus  insured  to  boots  and  shoes  were,  he  next  observed,  as 
endless  as  the  varieties  of  human  talent  and  general  character ; and 
here  and  at  once  was  a coincidence  too  remarkable  not  to  be  curiously 
analysed. 

“So  Mr.  Klapptrapp  became  industrious,  and  in  the  very  infancy 
of  his  inquiries,  ascertained  the  strong-marked  difference  between 
the  bumps  conformed  on  the  boot  of  a very  vulgar  and  brutal  man, 
and  on  that  of  a very  refined  and  amiable  man.  No  one,  he  well 
remarked,  can  have  been  without  noticing  the  horrid  conformations 
acquired  by  the  boots  of  a huge  wagoner  or  Smithfield  badge-man, 
who  from  constant  use  of  same  has  fully  impressed  them  with  the 
knuckles  and  twistings  of  his  broad,  bullock-like,  splay-foot.  Only 
hang  up  by  their  side  a pair  of  genteel  old  boots,  such  as  may  have 
been  worn  to  the  welt,  by  a scholar  or  philanthropist,  and  can  you 
not  instantly  vouch  the  exact  kind  of  intellect  and  heart  that  once 
put  in  motion  the  different  limbs  to  which  both  were  once  appended? 

“ This  was  the  foundation  of  Mr.  Klapptrapp’s  system.  He  followed 
it  up  with  a zeal,  a perspicuity  and  minuteness  I cannot  pretend  to 
detail : first,  contrasting  general  differences,  and  then — his  eye  and 
intellect  becoming  quicker  by  practice — at  last  establishing  the  nicest 
subdivisions  and  distinctions,  so  that  bring  him  a pair  of  cast-off 
shoes  or  boots  he  had  never  before  seen,  and  he  told  you,  within  a 
bump,  of  the  fearers  talent  and  morality. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


157 


“ When  Mr.  Angle  introduced  me  into  his  study,  we  carried  with  us 
a pair  of  shoes  that  had  been  left  behind  by  a man  recently  hanged 
for  a shocking  murder ; and  the  moment  Mr.  K.,  laid  his  eyes  on 
them,  he  proclaimed  their  sanguinary  conformation.  In  this  he  wa3 
fully  warranted  by  the  appearance  of  the  organ  of  destruction  which, 
as  I recollect,  is  formed  by  an  unusual  swell  of  the  outward  knuckle 
of  the  great  toe,  leaving  a correspondent  knob  on  the  outside  of  the 
shoe  or  boot  5 and  which,  in  this  instance,  peculiarly  verified  its 
nature  by  having  burst  through  the  leather  on  or  about  the  night 
when  the  homicide  committed  his  bloody  act. 

“ We  found  the  philosopher  surrounded  by  rows  over  rows  of  old 
boots  and  shoes  of  every  possible  class  ; and  I listened  with  much 
interest  and  deference  to  his  lecture  of  some  hours,  upon  the  virtues 
or  vices,  genius  or  stupidity,  of  those  by  whom  they  had  once  been 
worn.  There  was  the  last  pair  of  Waterloos  that  John  Thurtell  had 
doffed,  authenticated  by  certificates  under  the  hand  of  each  collector 
of  curiosities  who  had  possessed  them,  from  Lavender  or  Ruthven 
down  to  Dr.  Klapptrapp  ; and  the  benevolent  and  cautious,  and  heroic 
cut-throat  and  brain-pounder  came  in  for  his  future  as  well  as  present 
vindication.  By  felicitous  chances  other  shoes  and  boots  of  other 
remarkable  characters  of  this  day,  had  been  snatched  from  oblivion  : 
but  while  all  proclaimed  the  admitted  and  general  excellence  of  the 
individuals  they  professed  to  illustrate,  they  also  suggested  curious 
differences,  in  minute  points  indeed,  between  the  real  and  self-asserted 
characters  of  some  of  those  persons.  Lord  Byron’s  boot,  for  instance, 
wanted  the  organ  of  amativeness ; hinting  that  notwithstanding  all  a 
man  may  rhyme  about  the  passion,  he  need  not,  as  a consequence, 
ever  feel  it ; or  that,  vice  versa,  as  Shakespeare  says,  one  may  be 

‘ over  boots  in  love, 

Altho’  he  never  swam  the  Hellespont.’ 

Neither  did  Mr.  Hazlitt’s  shoe  exhibit  much  of  this  organ.  I was 
surprised  to  see  a pair  of  Sir  Walter’s  evince  almost  as  much  con- 
structiveness as  ideality,  and  not  so  much  secretiveness  as  I had 
expected.  Wordsworth,  after  all,  left  behind  him  a pair  of  shoes 
indicative  of  little  veneration,  while  time,  tune,  order,  causalty,  and 
locality  were  jumbled  together  in  them.  Mr.  Southey’s  had  a strong 
bump  of  self-esteem,  now  equivalent  to  self-conceit ; Ugo  Foscolo’s 
had  no  combativeness  ; Coleridge’s  no  form  ; Hogg’s  no  wit : the 


158 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


author  of  Lacon  no  inhabitiveness  ; and  Bowles’s  very  litfle  weight 
and  momenta. 

It  will  be  here  remarked,  that  Mr.  Klapptrapp  had  unceremoni- 
ously transferred  to  his  leathern  knobs  all  the  organic  names  invented 
by  his  predecessors  ; which,  however  common  to  both  the  names 
might  be,  I own  I regarded  as  a plagiarism  unworthy  of  his  genius.77 

Banim  did  not,  however,  spare  the  literary  profession. 
That  was  the  age  of  reviewing,  in  the  sense  in  which 
Macaulay  understood  it,  ten  pages  to  himself  to  ten  lines 
of  his  author  ; or  reviewing  was  committed  in  another 
manner,  but  by  inferior  minds — one  connecting  page  of 
the  review  to  ten  pages  of  the  author  ; and  thus,  when 
poetry  was  before  the  critic,  he  became — to  the  injury 
of  author  and  publisher — nothing  more  than  a paste  and 
scissors  purloiner,  and  might  truly  say  with  FalstafT,  “ I 
have  abused  the  King’s  Press  most  damnably.” 

Of  these  two  classes  of  reviewers,  and  of  the  news- 
paper critics,  the  “ Dead-Alive  ” thus  expressed  his 
opinions  : — 

“‘How  many  periodicals  have  you?  7 said  I. 

“ ‘ By  act  of  parliament,  three.  There  was  another  curse  of  the  age 
we  have  so  often  alluded  to,  and  one  other  slow  but  sure  rot  in  its 
literature.  Every  periodical,  great  and  small,  had  its  own  friends 
and  its  own  coterie,  or  its  own  political  opinions,  and  right  or  wrong, 
mawkish  or  extravagant,  as  its  contributors  might  have  been,  they 
were  partially  deified,  and  their  literary  opposites  run  down  in  the 
same  breath : and  thus  a most  dangerous  jumble  of  tastes  frittered 
away  the  public  mind,  until  puzzle  begat  languor,  and  languor  indif- 
ference, and  both  an  utter  neglect  of  every  new  book  and  author.7 

“ • It  seems  to  me,7  I continued,  ‘ that  in  another  view,  periodicals 
must  have  produced  the  decay  you  speak  of.  A small  volume  of 
poetry  costs  five  shillings,  and  it  will  contain  the  bad  as  well  as  the 
good  of  an  author ; and  you  purchase  his  errors  and  slips,  which  you 
don’t  exactly  want,  along  with  his  brilliant  bits  and  savory  passages. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


159 


Behold  on  the  other  hand  a grand  army  of  reviews,  of  all  shapes  and 
prices,  from  five  shillings  down  to  fourpence,  in  many  of  which  was 
to  be  had  the  cream  of  from  five  to  five-and-twenty  authors  together, 
carefully  skimmed  for  your  sipping  palate,  and  ready  for  use  at  your 
tea  or  coffee  in  the  morning.  Moreover,  you  bought  ready-made 
opinion  for  your  money,  a few  shillings  or  pence,  as  it  might  be,  and 
so  were  saved  the  trouble  of  forming  your  own.  And  what  man  or 
Miss  in  his  or  her  senses  might  be  expected  to  pay  a great  deal  for  so 
little,  when  with  a little,  he  or  she  could  have  the  great  deal? ’ 

“ 1 No  one  did  so,7  said  Mr.  Drudge  : ‘ the  “ reading  public  ” rested 
satisfied  with  periodicals  alone,  and  the  author  was  left  on  the  pub- 
lisher’s shelf.  Of  course  no  author  would  continue  to  write  for  the 
profit  of  other  persons  only  ; so  the  pen  was  at  last  totally  abandoned, 
and  the  sole  comfort  resulting  to  authors  was  to  see  their  monstrous 
tyrant,  the  periodical  press,  sharing  with  themselves  a common  ruin 
and  oblivion.’ 

“ ‘ The  periodical  press  ? ’ I exclaimed  ; * truly,  sir,  it  was  a species 
of  steam-loom,  or  thrashing  or  winnowing  machine,  that  with  its  short 
methods  and  unnatural  despatch,  threw  thousands  of  honest  people 
out  of  bread.’ 

“ ‘ I wonder,’  said  Mrs.  Drudge,  1 they  never  rose  out  against  it,  as 
about  the  same  time  the  indignant  trades,  weavers,  and  spinners,  and 
carders  rose  out  against  the  mechanical  encroachments — monopoly 
indeed — of  Manchester,  Glasgow,  and  other  manufacturing  places. 
Surely,  if  the  great  body  of  authors  were  united  (but  that  was,  in 
itself,  rather  a difficulty),  one  night  would  have  been  sufficient  for  the 
demolition  of  all  the  periodical  presses  in  London  and  Auld  Reekie.’ 

“ 1 Or  I should  have  chosen  a more  legal  proceeding,’  said  Mr. 
Drudge.  1 It  is  my  fixed  opinion  that  a good  action — Authors  vs. 
Reviewers — might  have  been  made  out,  to  go  for  damages  to  a special 
jury  in  King’s  Bench.  I think  an  author  might  have  crippled  them 
in  a thumping  verdict,  not  on  account  of  their  defamatory  praise  or 
censure,  but  on  account  of  their  piratical  quotations.  Where  was 
their  right  to  republish,  without  end,  the  best  part  of  a man’s  book? 
Was  it  not  as  black  piracy  as  if  the  promulgators  of  the  sixpenny 
Cain  did  so,  without  any  dull  or  prattling  remark  at  the  head,  the 
tail,  or  between  the  passages?  ’ 

“ ‘ Here  is  a curious  little  book  that,  among  other  curious  things, 
gives  us  some  notion  of  the  views  entertained  by  applicants  for  em- 
ployment to  a periodical  editor,  of  their  self-measured  fitness  for  the 


160 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


office,’  resumed  Mrs.  Drudge;  1 shall  I read  from  it  a letter  found 
among  the  papers  of  a gentleman,  who,  it  would  seem,  once  swayed 
a miscellaneous  periodical  of  the  time  ? ’ 

To  the  Editor  of  the  Universal  and  Multifarious  Magazine. 

Sir, — Being  at  present  disengaged,  I have  no  objection  to  tender 
my  services  for  the  advantage  of  your  respectable  journal.  I do  not 
much  care  into  what  department  you  may  put  me,  as  I think  I shall 
be  found  fit  enough  for  any.  Indeed,  if  agreeable  to  you,  I should 
rather  like  to  do,  now  and  then,  a little  on  every  topic.  I write  essays 
off-hand  on  all  subjects.  I am  particularly  liable  to  be  struck  with 
the  minutest  errors  of  a literary  work,  and  particularly  slow  at  com- 
prehending what  an  author  means  by  a beauty : hence  you  can 
estimate  my  capacity  for  your  review  sheet.  By  the  help  of  a lexicon, 
and  a friend  of  mine,  a young  Cantab,  I scruple  not  to  say  I should 
be  quite  competent  to  detect  the  bad  orthography  of  a Greek  quota- 
tion ; and  should  an  error  happen,  you  know  we  could  lay  it  either  on 
the  author  or  the  printer,  as  might  suit  our  convenience.  I make 
poetry  myself,  on  one  leg,  so  you  cannot  doubt  my  capacity  to  be  a 
fiogger  and  mangier  of  all  new  poems,  particularly  the  successful 
ones.  By  the  way  of  poetry,  I have  a large  blue  book  of  original 
sonnets,  odes,  &c.,  lying  by  me,  with  which  I shall  be  happy  to 
harmonize  your  last  sheet,  on  reasonable  terms ; but  I wish  it  to  be 
understood,  that  they  must  go  in  at  double  the  rate  of  my  prose 
contributions. 

Send  me  to  the  King’s  Theatre,  if  you  like  : I am  no  great  adept 
myself,  nor  indeed  can  I boast  a good  ear,  and  in  honest  truth  have 
never  heard  an  Italian  song  ; but  a musical  dictionary  is  within  my 
reach  ; a dear  friend  of  mine  frequents  the  opera  : so  I could  manage 
a brisk  technical  paragraph  for  you.  Of  the  drama  I ought  to  know 
something ; I have  trod  the  boards  myself,  before  now,  and  since  then 
have  written  a play  which  would  have  astonished  the  town  if  the  silly 
managers  had  produced  it.  So  don’t  spare  me  at  Drury  Lane  or 
Covent  Garden. 

But  I request  one  department  entirely  to  myself — the  fine  arts  : for 
although  I know  little  of  the  matter,  my  brother  is  an  artist  of  long 
standing  ; his  pictures  have  been  twice  turned  out  of  Somerset  House, 
and  he  promises  to  furnish  me  with  critiques  on  the  works  of  the 
council,  and  particularly  of  the  hanging  committee.  As  to  the  rest, 
I know  no  subject  more  easily  handled  by  a writer  completely  igno- 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


161 


rant  of  it.  Only  compile  a list  of  painters’  names,  and  the  cant  of 
the  painting  room;  boldly  arraign  Sir  Joshua’s  lectures;  compare 
pictures  and  styles  that  may  be  as  antagonistic  as  north  and  south  ; 
slip  in  such  terms  as  glazing,  and  scumbling,  and  toning,  and  keeping; 
conclude  by  saying  your  kettle  is  singing  to  make  whiskey  punch, 
and  the  thing  is  done. 

Horace  Handy. 

We  have  given  these  extracts  as  specimens  of  a work 
little,  if  at  all,  read  in  these  days,  and  as  affording  an 
example  of  Banim’s  ability  in  an  excellent  style  of  light 
composition,  very  dissimilar  to  that  for  which  he  is  best 
known. 

To  resume — once  more  the  dreaded  malady  returned, 
and  days  of  pain  were  succeeded  by  nights  of  sleepless 
watching.  Still  he  bore  up  manfully  against  all  odds,  and 
amidst  his  sorrows,  the  dear  friends  of  the  old  house 
in  Kilkenny  were  as  close  to  his  heart  and  as  warm  in 
his  memory  as  ever.  He  wrote  thus  to  Michael, — 

11  London,  November  15 th,  1824. 

“ Dear  Michael, — Tell  me  how  this  weather  treats  my 
poor  mother.  As  to  me,  leaving  me  otherwise  in  good 
health,  it  brings  a score  handsaws,  chisels,  and  cork- 
screws, to  work  all  at  once,  on  every  inch  of  my  thighs, 
legs,  shins,  feet,  and  toes.  I roar  out  from  the  pain,  and 
I cannot  restrain  myself  ; the  other  night  I was  awake 
from  lying  down  to  rising,  all  the  while  in  torture.” 

This  attack  was  not  of  long  continuance,  and  with 
the  new  year,  1825,  came  the  satisfaction  of  having 
completed  the  “ Tales  by  the  O’Hara  Family,”  for  the 
purchase  of  which  he  was,  in  January,  in  treaty  with 
Colburn. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


“ TALES  BY  THE  O’HARA  FAMILY  ” PUT  TO  PRESS — “ THE  BOYNE 

water”  COMMENCED A PUBLISHER^  RUSE “ TALES  BY  THE 

O’HARA  FAMILY”  PUBLISHED THEIR  SUCCESS SHARE  OF 

MICHAEL  AND  JOHN  BANIM  IN  THE  SERIES LETTERS SICK- 

NESS OF  MRS.  BANIM — SLIGHT  RETURN  OF  HIS  OWN  ILLNESS 

LETTERS PROGRESS  OF  “ THE  BOYNE  WATER” VISIT  OF 

JOHN  BANIM  TO  DERRY TOUR  OF  MICHAEL  BANIM  THROUGH 

THE  COUNTY  LIMERICK  — EACH  BROTHER  COLLECTING  MATE- 
RIALS FOR  “ THE  BOYNE  WATER” LETTERS ENGAGEMENTS 

WITH  ARNOLD  OF  THE  ENGLISH  OPERA  HOUSE LETTERS  FROM 

GERALD  GRIFFIN FRIENDSHIP  BETWEEN  HIM  AND  BANIM 

VISIT  OF  JOHN  BANIM  TO  KILKENNY MICHAEL’S  ACCOUNT  OF 

IT LETTERS PUBLICATION  OF  “ THE  BOYNE  WATER” LET- 
TERS  SECOND  MISUNDERSTANDING  WITH  GERALD  GRIFFIN — - 

cc  THE  NO  WLANS”  COMMENCED LETTERS RELIGIOUS  FEELINGS 

HOME  THOUGHTS LETTERS. 

We  have  related  the  various  phases,  sometimes  sunny 
and  frequently  clouded,  marking  the  life  of  John  Banim, 
and  we  have  now  reached  that  epoch  of  his  life-history 
in  which,  when  in  his  twenty-sixth  year,  he  had  com- 
pleted “ The  Tales  by  the  O’Hara  Family,”  and  had 
succeeded  in  obtaining  a publisher.  Now  had  come  the 
time  for  ^yhich,  through  all  the  sorrows  of  the  weary 
past,  he  had  toiled  and  hoped.  True,  it  was  not  his 
first  triumph,  he  had  known  that  joy  which  elevates 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  RANIM. 


163 


the  dramatist  when  his  thoughts  are  filling  the  hearts 
of  an  enraptured  audience  ; he  had  heard  great  actors 
in  his  “ Damon  and  Pythias,”  and,  as  some  noble  pas- 
sage in  the  play  had  charmed  the  listeners,  he  had  seen 
the  surging,  swaying  crowds  applauding  to  the  echo. 
But  this  was  a triumph  too  uncertain,  and  too  much 
dependent  upon  the  mass,  and,  in  the  probable  success 
of  “ The  O’Hara  Tales,”  he  fancied  that  he  saw  the 
brightest  dream-land  of  his  brightest  reverie — fame, 
competence  secured,  a happy  home  for  Ellen,  for  his 
mother,  for  all ; the  full  fruition  of  that  charming  aspi- 
ration which  he  expressed  to  Michael  when  he  wrote  : 
“ That  my  dear  Ellen,  and  my  dear  Joanna,  should  live 
together  in  love  and  unity,  is  my  great  wish  and  my 
hope  too.  To  see  them  working,  or  reading,  or  making 
their  womanly  fuss  near  me,  and  under  my  roof,  and 
mutually  tolerating  and  helping  each  other,  and  never 
talking  loud.  And  my  mother,  my  dear,  dear  mother, 
sitting  in  her  arm-chair  looking  at  them,  with  her  old- 
times  placid  smile  ; and  my  father  and  you  doing 
whatever  you  liked.  Tush ! Perhaps  this  is  foolish  and 
Utopian  of  me.  Yet  we  must  live  together  : that  is  the 
blessed  truth.  Such  a set  of  people  were  not  born  to 
dwell  asunder.  And,  perhaps,  the  old  times  would  come 
back  again  after  all.  What  is  the  reason,  I ask,  that, 
after  a little  while,  we  should  not  club  our  means,  and 
dwell,  as  Mr.  Owen  preaches,  in  one  big  house,  every 
mother’s  son  and  daughter  of  us  ; and  have  good  feel- 
ing, good  taste,  and  economy  presiding  over  us  ? More 


164 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


unlikely  tilings  have  happened.  After  the  world  is  seen, 
it  does  not  bear  to  be  gaped  at  every  day  ; and  the 
only  true  aim  of  a rational  creature  ought  to  be,  humble 
independence  on  any  scale,  and  the  interchange  of  those 
little  and  tireless  amiabilities,  that  in  a loving,  and 
virtuous,  and  temperate  circle,  make  life  indeed  worth 
living  for — to  me.  And  without  these  life  is  a com- 
pulsion : a necessity  to  breathe  without  enjoyment — to 
sweat  without  a reward.” 

These  were  his  hopes  and  heartiest  wishes — success 
in  literature  could  alone  for  him  secure  their  attainment, 
and  once  attained,  life  would  be  fair  as 

u A light  upon  the  shining  sea.” 

But,  even  whilst  correcting  the  proof-sheets  of  the  first 
series  of  “ The  Tales,”  he  was  preparing  materials  for  a 
novel,  and  he  wrote  thus  to  his  brother  : — 

“London,  January  Yith,  1825. 

“ My  dear  Michael, — I am  reading  hard  for  a three- 
volume  tale,  and,  if  our  present  venture  succeed,  I may 
hope  for  a fair  price.” 

He  was  not,  however,  at  all  forgetful  of  his  success  as 
a dramatist,  and  he  still  negotiated  for  the  production 
of  “ The  Prodigal  ” at  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  having, 
as  we  have  already  related,  failed  in  inducing  Elliston 
to  accept  it  for  Drury  Lane.  But  in  this  attempt  he 
was,  as  the  reader  has  been  informed,  unsuccessful, 
owing  to  disagreements  with  Edmund  Kean. 

Disappointments  connected  with  this  tragedy  were 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


165 


not  his  only  causes  of  uneasiness.  Mrs.  Banim’s  health 
had  not  improved,  and  she  was  directed  by  her  physi- 
cian to  pass  a short  period  in  France.  In  the  follow- 
ing letter  Banim  describes  his  position,  his  cares,  his 
hopes,  and  his  expectations.  The  old  kindly  home  love 
is  bright  as  ever — whether  in  joy  or  sorrow  ; struggling 
or  prosperous — home,  his  wife  and  his  mother,  are 
always  at  his  heart.  And  yet  how  strange  it  seems 
that  his  love  should  cling  so  firmly  to  those  scenes 
where  he  had  known  many  sorrows,  many  pains,  and, 
save  in  childhood,  no  joys.  Can  it  be  that  this  thought 
of  the  lamented  Arthur  Henry  Hallam  is  true,  and  that 
“Pain  is  the  deepest  thing  that  we  have  in  our  nature, 
and  union  through  pain  has  always  seemed  more  real 
and  more  holy  than  any  other.”  Thus,  at  all  events, 
John  Banim  wrote  to  his  father  : — 

“ London,  January  28 ib,  1825. 

“ My  dear  Father, — I have  to  inform  you,  that  I have 
kept  back  at  Covent  Garden  to  watch  the  fate  of  a play 

by . This  play  I judged  would  not  succeed,  and  my 

judgment  has  proved  good.  It  was  repeated  only  twice. 
I may  expect  to  come  on,  when  Young  returns  to  his 
engagement,  in  about  six  weeks.  The  stage  apart  for  a 
moment,  pleasant  little  matters  are  occurring  elsewhere. 
Our  publishers,  being  highly  pleased  with  the  matter 
now  in  progress,  engage  liberal  terms,  should  our  venture 
have  luck.  Yesterday  I received  a proof  of  their  good 
opinion,  in  the  shape  of  a handsome  snuff-box,  with 
which  I intend  to  present  you  when  we  meet.  So  far, 
my  dear  father,  with  other  seasonable  assistance  from 


166 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BAN1M. 


my  good  friend  Mr.  Arnold,  who  receives  my  small  the- 
atrical pieces  freely,  I am  very  comfortable,  considering 
that  I have  had  to  win  my  way  in  a scramble,  where  no 
human  being  was  interested  to  lend  me  a hand.  I think 
I have  not  altogether  done  badly.  I have  been  here 
three  years,  and  I do  not  owe  a shilling.  I am  now  es- 
teemed in  the  market.  Alas  ! literature  is  a marketable 
commodity,  as  well  as  any  other  ware,  and  sells  according 
to  its  quality.  But,  if  able,  my  regular  business  will 
soon  send  me  to  Ireland,  and  afford  me  the  happiness  of 
embracing  my  family. 

“ One  regret  I must  feel  during  my  visit ; I shall  not 
be  accompanied  by  her  who  has  for  three  years  been 
the  sharer  of  my  struggles — the  only  friend  in  my  exile. 
Ellen  has  been  ordered  to  seek  a milder  clime  for  awhile, 
and  I must  convey  her  to  France  for  a period.  She  is 
not  very  or  dangerously  ill : I send  a medical  certificate 
to  her  father  to  convince  him  of  this  ; but  still  her 
removal  has  been  pronounced  necessary,  and  I owe 
her  too  much  to  counteract  the  injunctions  of  her  phy- 
sician. 

“Michael  gave  me  charming  assurances  in  his  last 
letter  of  my  dear  mother’s  health.  Were  she  ever  so 
ill,  I know  the  expectation  of  seeing  me  (you  see  I am 
growing  riotous  in  my  own  good  opinion)  will  speedily 
make  her  well.” 

He  accompanied  his  wife  to  France,  and  having  se- 
cured apartments  for  her,  he  returned  to  London,  and 
to  its  labors.  In  the  following  letter,  written  a few  days 
after  he  had  reached  London,  he  informs  Michael  of  the 
progress  of  “ The  Tales  ” through  the  press,  and  hints 
at  his  returning  illness  : — 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


1G7 


“ London,  May  9 th,  1825. 

“My  dear  Michael,  — I remained  scarce  a day  in 
France  after  I saw  Ellen  housed : yet  short  as  was  my 
absence  from  London,  matters  got  into  a pretty  pickle 
with  the  printers  before  I came  back. 

“ The  labor  of  getting  £ Crohoore 9 through  the  ordeal 
has  been  hideous  : almost  every  sheet  of  him  came 
back  to  me  three  or  four  times.  It  is  tremendous  work 
to  compel  English  types  to  shape  themselves  into  Irish 
words.  Happily  he  is  now  equipped  for  his  debut , as 
well  as  I can  shape  him.  £ The  Fetches  ’ is  disposed 
of  also,  and  I am  through  the  first  hundred  pages  of 
the  last  volume.  I have  been  leading  a solitary  life 
since  my  wife  left  me  : but  no  help  for  that.  To  keep 
me  alive  I have  plenty  of  work  on  hand,  and  there 
are  fair  prospects  in  view. 

££  My  health  has  been  only  tolerable  ; as  Shakespeare 
hath  it, 

1 The  moon,  the  governess  of  floods, 

Pale  in  her  anger,  washes  all  the  air, 

That  rheumatic  diseases  do  abound.’ 

££  I greatly  fear  and  dread  mother  has  also  had  her 
visitation,  if  the  weather  has  been  such  in  Ireland  as 
we  have  had  here.” 

Upon  the  eve  of  the  publication  of  ££  The  Tales,”  the 
next  letter  was  addressed  by  John  Banim  to  his  brother, 
and  in  it  he  details  a little  publishing  ruse  ; one  of  a 
class  of  which  many  instances  have  been  afforded  in 
London,  during  the  anxiety  of  the  public  to  possess 
books  containing  information  on  the  countries  sur- 
rounding Sebastopol  : — 


1G8 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


“ London,  April  6th,  1825. 

“ My  dear  Michael, — Our  tales  have  not  been  an- 
nounced in  the  usual  manner,  and  I will  tell  you  why. 

“A  certain  literary  gentleman,  an  Irishman  too,  of 
undoubted  talent,  being  aware  of  the  nature  of  our 
volumes,  started  with  a spirited  publisher,  and  got 
out  notices,  and  it  became  rather  an  amusing  race 
between  us.  He  would  come  occasionally,  in  the  most 
friendly  manner,  to  hope  I was  going  on  well.  Pen 
against  pen  it  was,  as  fast  as  they  could  gallop. 
Mounted  on  my  grey  goose  quill  I have  beaten  him, 
as  to  time  at  all  events.  It  was  necessary  to  keep  him 
in  the  dark  by  leaving  our  books  unannounced.  What 
may  be  the  further  result  of  our  race  is  yet  to  be  seen. 
There  is  quackery  in  all  trades,  from  the  boudoir  to  the 
pill-box. 

“ I purpose  to  be  in  Derry,  two  hundred  miles  north 
of  you,  in  a few  weeks,  and  in  some  time  after  I will 
run  down  to  Kilkenny  to  shake  hands  with  you  all,  and 
hear  my  poor  mother  call  me  her  own  ‘ graw  bawn  * once 
again.” 

The  visit  to  Derry,  mentioned  in  this  letter,  was 
undertaken  for  the  purpose  of  gaining  an  accurate 
knowledge,  from  personal  observation,  of  the  scenery 
and  character  of  the  country  around  the  Boyne  ; and  this 
knowledge  was  turned  by  Banim  to  excellent  account, 
as  may  be  perceived  in  those  admirable  descriptions 
introduced  in  that  novel  upon  which  he  was  then 
engaged,  “ The  Boyne  Water.” 

The  “Tales  by  the  O’Hara  Family”  appeared  on 
the  7th  of  April,  1825,  and  their  success  was,  from  the 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


169 


first  day,  unquestionable.  Gerald  Griffin  wrote  to  his 
brother,  and  described  Banim’s  triumph  thus  : “ Have 
you  seen  Banim’s  O’Hara  Tales  ? — if  not,  read  them, 
and  say  what  you  think  of  them.  I think  them  most 
vigorous  and  original  things  ; overflowing  with  the  very 
spirit  of  poetry,  passion  and  painting;  if  you  think 

otherwise,  don’t  say  so.  My  friend  W sends  me 

word  that  they  are  well  written.  All  our  critics  here  say 
that  they  are  admirably  written  ; that  nothing  since 
Scott’s  first  novels  has  equalled  them.  I differ  entirely 
with  W in  his  idea  of  the  fidelity  of  their  deline- 

ations. He  says  they  argue  unacquaintance  with  the 
country  ; I think  they  are  astonishing  in  nothing  so 
much  as  in  the  power  of  creating  an  intense  interest 
without  stepping  out  of  real  life,  and  in  the  very  easy 
and  natural  drama  that  is  carried  through  them,  as 
well  as  in  the  excellent  tact  which  he  shows,  in  seizing 
on  all  the  points  of  national  character  which  are  capable 
of  effect  ; mind,  I don’t  speak  of  ‘ The  Fetches  ’ now. 
That  is  a romance.  But  is  it  not  a splendid  one  ? 
Nobody  knew  anything  of  Banim,  till  he  published  his 
4 O’Hara  Tales,’  which  are  becoming  more  and  more 
popular  every  day.  I have  seen  pictures  taken  from 
them  already  by  first-rate  artists,  and  engravings  in  the 
windows.” 

Literary  fame,  however,  was  not  the  only  point  to  be 
considered ; the  pecuniary  reward  of  merit  wras  a very 
important  consideration.  The  fame,  indeed,  belonged 

entirely,  so  far  as  the  public  knew,  to  John ; but  Michael, 

8 


170 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


living  at  home  quietly  in  Kilkenny,  had  formed  very 
prosaic  ideas,  and  thought,  very  naturally,  that  if  the 
public  admired  “ The  O’Hara  Tales,”  the  public  ought  to 
prove  its  appreciation  by  purchasing  them  ; and  he  wrote 
to  John,  requesting  information  upon  the  interesting 
topic  comprised  in  the  short  question,  “How  do  the 
books  8611?”  John’s  reply  we  shall  just  now  insert,  but 
we  would  here  draw  the  reader’s  attention  to  the  facts 
already  related,  in  which  we  have  detailed  the  plans  of 
joint  contribution  agreed  upon  in  the  composition  of 
the  “ Tales  by  the  O’Hara  Family.” 

The  first  tale  of  the  series,  entitled  “ Crohoore  of  the 
Billhook,”  was  written  by  Michael  Banim,  who  wrote 
also  the  opening  chapter,  descriptive  of  a “ Pattern,”  in 
“ John  Doe/’  the  third  tale  of  this  first  series  : the 
remainder  of  this  tale,  and  the  entire  of  “ The  Fetches,” 
the  second  tale,  were  written  by  John  Banim  ; but,  as 
was  agreed  upon,  each  brother  submitted  his  contribu- 
tions to  the  earnest  criticism  of  the  other. 

And  when  one  comes  now  to  examine  these  fictions, 
to  mark  their  vigor  and  dramatic  power,  to  note  those 
qualities  indicated  by  Griffin,  who  wrote  of  them,  “ they 
are  astonishing  in  nothing  so  much  as  in  the  power  of 
creating  an  intense  interest  without  stepping  out  of  real 
life,  and  in  the  very  easy  and  natural  drama  that  is 
carried  through  them,  as  well  as  in  the  excellent  tact 
which  he  shows  in  seizing  on  all  the  points  of  national 
character,”  we  must  agree  with  Gerald  in  his  estimate 
of  the  merit  of  the  series.  These  qualities  attributed 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


171 


by  Griffin  to  “ The  Tales  ” appear  more  clearly  in  the 
fictions  subsequently  written,  but  the  ability  of  the 
brothers  is  not  the  less  plainly  shown.  And  it  is,  indeed, 
strange  that  two  young  men,  the  one  a shopman  to  his 
father,  planning  his  scenes  by  day  whilst  attending  to 
his  business  duties,  and  stealing  his  leisure  from  the 
night  ; the  other,  a hard-worked  literary  man — one  who, 
as  he  said  himself,  should  “ tease  the  brain,  as  wool- 
combers  tease  wool,  to  keep  the  fire  in  and  the  pot 
boiling,”  could  have  been  able  to  produce  those  novels 
which,  though  entering  upon  a pre-occupied  branch  of 
literature,  obtained  and  secured  attention  from  the 
earliest  publication.  In  J ohn  BaninTs  case,  too,  it  should 
be  remembered,  that  he  was  forced  to  write  when  he 
could  write ; that  is,  he  wrote  at  such  times  as  he  could 
snatch  from  his  ordinary  engagements  : sometimes  when 
racked  in  body  by  his  own  pains,  sometimes  when  racked 
in  mind  through  sympathy  for  the  ill-health  of  his  wife. 
But  the  strong  bold  will,  the  earnest  hope  of  success, 
bear  the  mental  hero  above  every  sorrow — the  victor 
of  every  woe — and  thus  is  proved  the  wisdom  of 
Wordsworth’s  thought — 

“ A cheerful  life  is  what  tbe  Muses  love, 

A soaring  spirit  is  their  prime  delight.” 

In  the  following  letter  those  qualities  of  mind  are 
proved,  and  his  industry  and  mental  courage  are  most 
admirably  displayed: — 


172 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


“ London,  May  ls£,  1825. 

“My  dear  Michael, — You  ask  me  a very  vital  ques- 
tion, How  do  the  books  sell  ? Very  well. 

“ The  publishers  are  quite  contented  : big  with 
hopes,  and  withal  benevolent.  On  mature  reflection,  I 
venture  to  solve  another  important  query  ; I deem  you 
should  neglect  neither  your  business  nor  three  new 
volumes.  Plan  out  three  tales,  and  work  at  them  from 
time  to  time  at  your  leisure,  and  I think  I can  obtain 
for  you  a remunerative  price. 

“ I will  be  ready  with  a tale  in  three  volumes  by 
Christmas,  and  I propose  you  should  be  prepared  for 
the  next  trial.  For  my  tale  I will  visit  every  necessary 
spot  in  the  North  and  South.  Derry,  Lough  Neagh— 
thence  to  the  Boyne,  and  then  to  Limerick.  I have 
christened  the  tale  before  its  birth.  It  is  to  be  called 
‘ The  Boyne  Water.’  I have  sent  you  all  the  criti- 
cisms ; in  no  case  have  we  got  a drubbing.  We  have 
yet  to  undergo  the  scrutiny  of  the  monthly  and  quarterly 
periodicals.  This  I can  tell  you  to  inspirit  you — the 
good  Belles  Lettres  critic  of  the  Quarterly  has  read  our 
volumes,  and  has  deigned  to  praise  them  in  high  quarters. 

“Man  alive,  hold  up  your  head  and  have  courage.” 

A few  days  after  the  date  of  this  letter,  John  Banina 
sailed  for  Ireland,  and  reaching  Dublin  safely,  he  at  once 
set  out  for  Belfast.  His  occupations  in  the  North  were 
thus  described,  in  a letter  to  Michael  : — 

“ Coleraine,  May  2 8th,  1825. 

“ My  dear  Michael, — Lest  you  should  be  uneasy  at 
my  staying  longer  than  I proposed,  I write  to  say  I am 
well,  and  have  only  been  delayed  by  the  uninterrupted 
interest  of  my  route  from  Belfast.  I walked  a great 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


173 


part  of  the  way  along  the  coast  to  this  town  ; having 
forwarded  all  my  baggage,  trusting  to  Him  who  feeds 
the  sparrow  and  the  raven,  for  a meal  and  a bed.  My 
adventures  have  been  considerable  in  the  way  of  living 
alone.  I sometimes  slept  in  a sheebeen  house,  some- 
times in  a farmer’s  house,  and  sometimes  in  a good  inn  ; 
and  only  I thought  myself  too  ill-dressed  a fellow,  I 
might  have  shared  the  hospitality  of  a certain  lady  of 
high  rank. 

“ But  what  scenery  have  I beheld — grand,  exquisite  : 
the  Causeway,  from  which  I have  just  returned,  the  best 
part  of  it.  You  may  look  out  for  me  towards  the  end 
of  the  next  week.  One  thing  is  certain — I will  meet 
a hearty  welcome  at  the  old  house  where  I first  saw 
the  light.” 

Back  to  “ the  old  house,”  and  to  his  mother,  came 
“ her  own  gram  hawn”  with  love  as  warm  and  heart  as 
true  as  in  the  past-by  days  of  childhood,  when  he  stole 
from  his  playmates  to  watch  over  her  safety,  fearing 
that  “ Farrell  the  Robber”  might  carry  her  away.  And 
here,  the  student  of  literary  biography  will,  doubtless, 
observe  how  beautifully  this  man’s  nature  shines,  un- 
chilled by  adversity  and  pain,  unspoiled — so  unspoiled 
— by  success,  and  by  the  golden  hopes  of  the  brighter 
future. 

One  can  fancy  this  deep-hearted  man  returned  to  “the 
old  house  ” where  he  “ first  saw  light,”  and  where  he  had 
known  such  joys  and  sorrows,  such  real  cares  and  such 
cloud-land  visions,  as,  happily,  few  men  experience  in 
their  darker  phases  : Joanna  and  Michael  rush  forth 
to  greet  him,  and  the  more  sober,  but  not  less  intense 


174 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


joy  of  the  father  and  mother  need  no  word-painting. 
It  must  have  been  the  realization  of  a dream-vision, 
one  of  those  glimpses  of  paradise,  fading  as  the  morning 
arises,  ami  leaving  but  a regretful  memory  of  joys  never 
to  return  again. 

Thinking  thus,  we  addressed  Michael  Banim,  and 
added — “ Tell  us  how  you  all  received  John  when  he 
came  to  you  from  his  northern  tour  ; ” and  Michael 
answered  us,  “ You  may  be  sure  the  absentee  received 
a hearty  welcome  in  the  old  house.  On  a Sunday  evening 
he  came  amongst  us,  the  evening  of  all  others  we  could 
best  enjoy  ourselves.  There  was  the  family  board,  with 
something  more  choice  even  than  the  usual  Sunday  fare, 
to  mark  the  event.  The  well-known  faces  were  all 
around  it  once  more.  No  one  absent.  There  was  the 
new-comer,  in  the  identical  chair,  and  on  the  same  spot, 
he  used  to  occupy.  There  was  the  dinner  prolonged 
unreasonably,  by  questions  and  answers,  interruptive 
of  mastication.  When  the  table  was  at  length  cleared, 
there  was  the  jerking  of  chairs  into  as  close  contact  as 
possible.  And  there  was  the  cheerful  glass,  in  which  to 
hob-nob  with  the  restored  straggler.  Truth  to  tell,  I 
fear  that  three  of  the  circle,  the  old  man  and  his  two 
sons,  dipped  somewhat  deeper  than  discretion  or  respect 
for  the  Sabbath  evening  warranted. 

“This  meeting  of  kindred  after  separation,  bore  like- 
ness to  a gushing  fountain,  one  of  whose  channels  had 
been  interrupted  ; the  other  insufficient  to  carry  off  the 
waters  ; the  temporary  obstacle  removed,  the  whole 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


175 


affluence  came  forth  babbling  and  sparkling  in  the  sun- 
shine. There  was  no  cloud  that  we  could  see,  on  that 
Sunday  evening,  over  us.  There  was  frequent  laughter, 
ringing  out,  and  without  rhyme  or  reason.  There  was  a 
tautology  of  endearing  epithets.  There  was  the  voluble 
enjoyment  that  marked  a jubilee.” 

Banim  did  not  continue  long  in  “ the  old  house  ; ” and 
early  in  July  he  was  back  once  more  in  London  at  his 
desk,  engaged  in  that  ceaseless  round  of  work  ; truly 

“ Twilight  saw  him  at  his  folios, 

Morning  saw  his  fingers  run, 

Laboring  ever, 

Weary  never 

Of  the  task  he  had  begun.” 

His  visit  to  Kilkenny  had  not  been  entirely  one  of 
pleasure.  He  had  planned,  with  Michael,  the  outlines  of 
future  novels,  plays  and  poems.  He  had  now  no  doubts 
or  fears,  and  the  great  prizes  of  genius,  that  is,  such 
prizes  as  England  gives,  golden  wreaths,  were  all,  he 
fancied,  within  his  grasp,  to  be  secured  by  industry. 
Within  three  years  he  had  made  for  himself  a reputa- 
tion by  honorable,  but  unflinching  work  ; and  he  looked 
upon  it  but  as  the  stepping-place,  the  mound  which 
should  be  raised  before  his  hopes  could  blossom  in  com- 
plete fruition. 

“ Time,  the  subtile  thief  of  youth,” 
had  never  yet  affrighted  him  ; the  past  was  but  a 
dead  past ; all  life,  and  the  bliss  of  prosperity  were 
in  the  future — and  that  life  and  bliss  were  to  be 
wrought  out  of  the  life  and  labor  of  the  present. 


176 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


A few  days  after  liis  return  to  London,  lie  wrote  thus 
to  Michael : — 

“ London,  July  1 6th,  1825. 

“ My  dear  Michael, — I am  stripped  to  the  shirt- 
sleeves, the  weather  is  so  hot,  not  scampering  abroad, 
but  in  my  oven-like  study,  plying  the  skreeking  pen 
might  and  main,  for  it  is  a terrible  atmosphere  here  : 
the  glass  up  to  fever-heat,  and,  except  the  rabid,  who 
appear  now  and  then,  not  a canine  frequenter  of  the 
streets  visible.  The  race  of  dogs  seemeth  extinct.” 

"Whilst  “plying  the  skreeking  pen,  might  and  main,” 
he  learned  from  Mrs.  Banim  that  she  was  now  suf- 
ficiently restored  to  health  to  bear  the  atmosphere  of 
England  ; and  accordingly,  on  the  24th  of  August,  he 
set  out  for  France,  and  returned  with  her  to  his  new 
home  in  Mount  Street  ; and  Gerald  Griffin  succeeded 
him  in  the  occupation  of  the  old  lodgings  in  Brompton 
Grove. 

All  his  unoccupied  time  was  now  devoted  to  the 
completion  of  “ The  Boyne  Water.”  Griffin  visited 
him  frequently,  and  was  fully  acquainted  with  all  the 
details  of  the  work.  He  wrote  to  his  brother  William  : 
“Banim  has  been  all  over  the  North  of  Ireland,  and 
has  brought  here  the  world  and  all  of  materials  for  his 
new  novel.  He  has  spent  an  immense  deal  of  labor 
and  study  in  acquiring  a perfect  knowledge  of  all  the 
historical  records  of  the  period,  and  procured  a great 
deal  of  original  information,  and  other  matters,  during 
his  ramble.”  In  weaving  these  materials,  so  gathered, 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


177 


into  his  novel,  Banim  seemed  to  forget  even  the  friends 
in  “the  old  house,”  and  Michael  wrote  anxiously  to 
Mrs.  Banim,  requesting  that  she  would  correspond  with 
him,  as  John  seemed  lost  to  all  honesty  in  paying  epis- 
tolary debts.  Mrs.  Banim’s  reply  was  as  follows,  and  it 
reminds  one  of  Dora  Copperfield’s  experiences  of  the 
“ pursuits  of  literature.” 

“ London,  September  307/i,  1825. 

“Dear  Michael, — John  is  so  much  occupied  at  pre- 
sent that  I scarcely  ever  see  his  face  from  nine  o’clock  in 
the  morning  to  six  in  the  evening — when,  after  rapping 
for  some  time  at  the  ceiling — for  he  works  overhead — I 
go  up  to  his  door,  put  on  the  most  hungry  face  I can, 
and  complain  of  my  starving  state  : then  only  can  I 
get  him  to  come  down.  When  he  issues  forth,  he  is 
the  true  picture  of  stupidity.  He  has  himself  denied 
to  all  visitors  since  our  arrival  from  France,  and  the 
whole  long,  long  day  he  is  shut  up  with  his  plaguey 
‘ Boyne  Water.’  ” 

Nearly  a month  after  the  date  of  this  letter,  Michael 
received  the  following  from  John,  and  in  it  we  perceive 
the  first  indication  of  doubt  as  to  the  politics  of  “ The 
Boyne  Water  — 

“London,  October  2oth,  1825. 

“ My  dear  Michael, — You  have  made  me  shake 
and  shiver,  by  bringing  before  my  eyes  the  ticklish 
ground  on  which  I stand,  with  respect  to  the  present 
novel : and  you  have  almost  driven  me  to  despair,  by 

telling  me  to  look  for  increased  reputation — or . 

I almost  give  up  the  hope  of  realizing  the  wishes  you 


178 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


have  formed,  of  what  I ought  to  produce.  No  writer 
can  pronounce  on  his  own  realization  of  his  conceptions. 
Unfortunately  we  often  value  a production  according 
to  the  pains  and  care  we  bestow  on  it — hence  we  are 
indifferent  judges  of  ourselves.  I have  good  materials, 
if  I can  but  use  them  to  advantage.  Your  notes  on 
Limerick  and  the  contiguous  country  have  gone  be- 
yond my  expectation.  I return  you  my  thanks  for  all 
you  have  done.  Apart  from  the  matter  I wanted,  your 
memoranda  are  rich,  and  suggestive  to  me  of  a contin- 
uance of  such  things  by  both  of  us  conjointly,  to  be 
followed,  some  time  or  other,  by  the  publication  of 
‘ Walks  through  Ireland,  by  the  O’Hara  Family.’  ” 

At  length,  as  the  novel  advanced  towards  completion, 
he  seems  to  have  become  still  more  nervous  on  the  sub- 
ject of  its  probable  success.  Michael  had  warned  him 
that  in  adopting  the  political  tone  so  strongly  coloring 
the  tale,  he  was  endangering  its  popularity  with  a large 
section  of  readers  : and  truly  it  was  most  dangerous 
ground.  Gerald  Griffin,  however,  did  not  participate  in 
or  encourage  these  fears — but  then  he  never  feared  an}r- 
thing  ; his  soul  was  like  a lark,  always  soaring.  He 
wrote  to  his  brother  Yfilliam  thus: — “I  dined  with 
Banim  last  week,  and  found  him  far  gone  in  a new 
novel,  now  just  finished,  ‘The  Boyne  Water/  ( good 
name!)  which  is  far  superior,  in  my  humble  judgment, 
to  the  ‘ O’Hara  Family  / ” that  he  spoke  to  Banim  as  he 
wrote  to  his  brother,  there  can  be  little  doubt ; and  John 
seems  to  have  regained  his  self-reliance,  and  to  have 
taken  to  himself  the  counsel  he  had  offered  to  Michael, 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


179 


when  he  wrote — “Man  alive!  hold  up  your  head  and 
have  courage.” 

The  following  letter,  written  a few  days  after  that  last 
inserted,  is  most  interesting  : the  anxiety  that  Michael 
should  correct  freely;  the  humble  confidence  in  his 
brother’s  judgment ; the  holy  spirit  of  belief,  which, 
however  much,  in  one  point,  a worshipper  of  another 
creed  might  dissent  from  it,  yet  none  can  refuse  to 
admire  in  the  man,  all  render  this  letter  worthy  of  the 
true-hearted  writer  : — 


“ London,  November  6th,  1825. 

“My  dear  Michael, — With  this  you  will  receive  the 
first  volume  of  ‘The  Boyne  Water.’  I expect  to  go  to 
press  in  a month  from  this  day,  so  read  it  immediately, 
and  return  it  as  promptly  as  you  can. 

“Be  very  candid  in  your  remarks,  because  I ought 
to  be  made  to  know  myself : and  don’t  you,  at  least, 
through  a false  delicacy,  let  me  lead  myself  astray — 
every  man’s  vanity  blinds  himself,  to  himself,  of  himself. 

“This  morning  (Sunday),  accompanying  Ellen  to 
Communion,  I was  delighted  with  the  fair  and  beautiful 
sight  of  a crowd  of  other  communicants,  of  every  rank 
and  age,  clustering  to  the  sanctuary.  Some  old  Chelsea 
pensioners  were  there.  The  lame,  the  blind,  and  the 
tottering  : and  there  were  boys  and  girls  of  very  tender 
age  mixed  with  these  infirm  old  men.  Leaning  down 
to  minister  the  bread  of  comfort  and  of  life  to  those 
stumblers  on  the  grave’s  brink,  and  those  young  adven- 
turers on  a world  of  temptation,  was  a most  reverend- 
looking priest,  with  long  white  hairs,  who,  to  my  knowl- 
edge, is  one  of  the  most  zealous,  virtuous,  simple-minded 


180 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


men  alive.  My  dear  Michael,  as  I looked  on,  the  recol- 
lection of  our  first  communion  together  side  by  side, 
and  of  the  devotion  and  holy  awe  that  filled  my  heart 
at  the  time  ; and  the  remembrance  of  our  aged  and 
benevolent  parish  priest  bending  down  to  us  with  the 
sacrament  in  his  fingers,  came  refreshingly  to  me,  like 
the  draught  from  a pure  spring  ; and  a long  train  of 
innocent  days  and  blissful  times  passed  before  me — 
with  my  thoughts  recurrent  to  boyhood.” 

“The  Boyne  Water”  was  commenced  in  July,  1825, 
and  at  Christmas  of  that  year  the  three  volumes  were  in 
the  hands  of  the  printer  ; and  early  in  the  year  1826  it 
was  before  the  critics,  who  gave  it  a very  severe  and 
rough  reception  ; their  criticisms,  however,  were  directed 
against  its  politics  rather  than  its  literary  merit  or  its 
structure  of  plot  and  scene. 

It  was  published  as  a fiction  “ By  the  O’Hara  Family,” 
but,  writes  Michael  Banim  to  us — “ With  the  exception 
of  examining  the  locality  of  the  Siege  of  Limerick  (the 
siege  of  the  violated  treaty,  as  it  is  called),  and  the  trac- 
ing of  Sarsfield’s  route  from  the  beleaguered  city  to  the 
spot  where  he  surprised  and  destroyed  the  reinforce- 
ment of  cannon  on  its  way  from  Kilkenny,  I had  no 
direct  concern  in  this  tale.  It  passed  through  my  hands 
during  its  progress,  and  I pruned,  and  added,  and  cor- 
rected ad  libitum .” 

Boughly,  however,  as  the  critics  used  this  book,  the 
reading  public  were  its  very  warm  admirers  ; but,  better 
than  all,  to  one  wlo  wanted  money,  Colburn  offered 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


181 


a very  large  sum  for  the  next  tale  “By  the  O’Hara 
Family;”  and  John,  closing  with  the  proposal,  com- 
menced writing  his  novel,  “ The  Nowlans.” 

The  northern  tour  of  John  Banim  was  but  part  of 
that  extended  one  required  to  be  undertaken  and  com- 
pleted before  the  entire  scenery  of  the  localities  intro- 
duced into  “The  Boyne  Water”  could  be  described  from 
actual  observation.  Time,  however,  did  not  permit  him 
to  traverse  this  route  himself,  and  Michael  was  enlisted 
as  the  note-taker  of  the  southern  districts.  From  the 
notes  so  taken  the  descriptions  of  Limerick  and  the 
surrounding  country  in  “The  Boyne  Water”  were 
written. 

Michael’s  tour,  however,  was  remarkable,  as  an  ad- 
venture occurring  in  its  progress  suggested  to  John  the 
powerfully  written,  but  painful  novel,  “ The  Nowlans.” 
Michael  Banim  has,  with  his  usual  kindness,  written 
for  us  the  following  account  of  this  incident  to  which 
we  have  referred,  and  it  will  be  observed  that  John, 
with  consummate  ability,  wrought  out  the  idea  sug- 
gested by  Michael : — 

“While  pursuing  the  track  of  Sarsfield  on  his  route 
to  intercept  the  reinforcements  destined  to  strengthen 
the  besiegers  of  Limerick,  I journeyed  on  foot  through 
the  Slieve  Bloom  Mountains,  tracing  my  wray  principally 
by  the  traditionary  information  given  by  the  people. 
I kept  an  itinerary  as  I went  along,  referable  not  only 
to  the  purpose  of  my  journey,  but  descriptive  also  of 
the  peculiar  and  impressive  scenery  around  me,  and 


182 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


of  the  existing  characteristics  of  a little  known  but,  as 
they  appear  to  me,  a very  fine  people. 

“ My  adventures  during  this  excursion  were  not  with- 
out interest ; and,  after  it  had  been  ascertained  satis- 
factorily that  I was  not  a gauger,  coming  to  spy  after 
potteen  sellers  and  potteen  stills,  I found  courtesy  and 
kindness,  and  disinterested  assistance,  all  through  the 
mountain  range. 

“ It  was  my  fate  to  seek  shelter  for  the  night  at  the 
house  of  a farmer  named  Daniel  Kennedy.  His  warm 
and  comfortable  dwelling  was  in  a mountain  hollow, 
known  as  Fail  Dhuiv,  or  the  Black  Glen.  The  peculi- 
arities of  this  out-of-the-way  homestead,  the  appearance 
of  the  dwellers  therein,  and  the  details  of  the  unosten- 
tatiously hospitable  reception  given  to  me  wrere  faith- 
fully reported  in  my  note-book.  Extracted  thence,  al- 
most word  for  word,  my  veritable  account  forms  the 
introduction  to  the  tale  of  ‘The  Nowlans.’  There  was  a 
sick  son  on  the  night  of  my  visit  occupying  the  stran- 
ger’s bedroom,  about  whom  the  good  woman  of  the 
house  and  her  daughters  appeared  to  be  most  anxious. 
I could  not,  for  this  reason,  be  accommodated  in  the 
apartment  usually  reserved  for  guests,  and  my  bed 
was  made  up  on  the  kitchen  table.  The  home-made 
sheets  and  blankets,  white  as  snow,  and  redolent  of 
the  sweet  mountain  breeze  in  which  they  had  been 
bleached,  were  most  inviting  to  a weary  pedestrian,  as 
I was  ; and  I slept  luxuriously  that  night  on  the  kitchen 
table,  under  the  roof  of  Daniel  Kennedy  of  Fail  Dhuiv. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM, 


183 


“The  circumstance  of  the  sick  son,  who,  I could 
learn,  had  been  away,  and  who,  in  his  illness,  had  come 
home  to  seek  the  ministry  of  his  affectionate  kindred, 
gave  the  idea,  and  no  more  than  the  idea,  of  John  Now- 
lan — the  hero  of  the  new  tale.5’* 

Whilst  John  was  engaged  upon  “The  Nowlans,” 
Michael  paid  him  a long-promised  visit  in  London,  in 
the  summer  of  1826  ; and  then  it  appeared  that  John 
had,  in  his  letters,  detailed  only  the  good  and  cheering 

* The  broad  humor  of  the  following  passage  from  Michael’s  introductory 
letter  to  “ The  Nowlans,”  we  have  always  considered  quite  worthy  of  Smollett  or 
Fielding.  “Abel  O’Hara”  has  been  drenched  by  a heavy  shower  in  the  moun- 
tains, and  returning  to  Nowlan’s  house  finds  that — . 

‘ ‘ All  the  family  stood  at  the  threshold  to  receive  me  ; exclamations  of  condo- 
lence came  from  every  tongue ; and,  almost  by  main  force,  the  old'  woman,  her 
daughters,  and  the  robust  maid-servant,  forced  me  off  to  a bedchamber,  where 
I was  commanded  to  doff  every  tack  upon  me,  and  cover  myself  up  in  a neat 
little  bed,  until  every  tack  should  be  well  dried.  In  vain  I remonstrated:  Mrs. 
Nowlan  and  her  handmaid  whisked  off  my  coat  and  vest,  even  while  I spoke ; 
the  latter,  squatting  herself  on  her  haunches,  then  attacked  my  shoes  and  stock- 
ings; Peggy  appropriated  my  cravat;  and  I began  to  entertain  some  real  alarm 
as  to  the  eventual  Result  of  their  proceedings,  when  away  they  went  in  a body, 
each  laden  with  a spoil,  and  all  renewing  their  commands  that  I should  instantly 
peel  off  my  Russia-ducks  and  my  inner  garment,  drop  them  at  the  bed-side,  and 
then  retiring  between  the  sheets,  call  out  to  have  them  removed. 

“I  did  even  as  I was  bid;  and  when  properly  disposed  to  give  the  appointed 
signal,  Cauth  Flannigan,  the  maid  of  all-work,  speedily  attended  to  it,  re-enter- 
ing with  something  on  her  arm,  from  which  her  eye  occasionally  wandered  to 
my  half-seen  face,  in  a struggle,  as  I thought— and  I believe  I was  not  wrong  in 
my  reading — between  most  provoking  merriment  and  a decent  composure  of 
countenance:  ‘The  misthess  sent  this  shirt,  Sir — only  it  isn’t  a shirt  entirely, 
but  one  belongin’  to  the  misthess,  becase  it’s  the  washin’  week,  an’  the  sick- 
ness in  the  place,  an’  all,  an’  the  misthess  couldn’t  make  off  a betther  at  a 
pinch’ — and,  laying  it  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  Cauth  strove  to  hide  her  giggle  and 
her  blushes  by  stooping  to  take  up  the  last  of  my  drenched  garments.  When 
she  had  again  retired  with  them,  I examined  the  nicely-folded  article  she  had 
left  with  me,  and,  truly,  it  was  not  * a shirt  entirely  ’ — but — what  shall  I call  it, 
Barnes? — a female  shirt,  haply;  the  personal  property,  as  Cauth  would  have  it, 
of  Mrs.  Nowlan;  yet,  from  the  earnestness  with  which  that  zealous  Abigail  strove 
to  impress  the  fact  upon  me,  as  also  from  the  hasty  erasure  of  an  initial  near 
its  upper  edge,  I had  my  own  doubts,  while  I put  it  on,  concerning  the  identity 
of  its  owner.” 


184 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


facts  connected  with  his  life,  and  had  but  too  well  con- 
cealed the  slow  but  certain  progress  of  his  malady. 
Though  only  in  his  twenty-eighth,  he  seemed  at  least 
in  his  fortieth  year ; his  hair  was  grizzled ; his  face  was 
wrinkled  ; his  limbs  were  so  weak  that  Michael  feared 
lest  he  should  fall  in  the  streets  as  they  walked  to- 
gether ; and  then,  during  Michael’s  visit,  he  was  witness 
of  one  of  his  brother’s  paroxysms  of  pain,  and  though 
he  had  seen — had  even  been  as  his  nurse  during — his 

first  illness,  after  the  death  of  Anne  D , yet  this 

attack,  though  but  of  a few  hours’  continuance,  fright- 
ened him  by  its  violence,  although  when  it  passed  away 
John  was  gay  and  hopeful  as  ever. 

"Whilst  thus  working  and  suffering,  he  once  more, 
through  his  anxiety  to  serve  Gerald  Griffin,  became 
estranged  from  him.  It  would  appear  that  Banim  had 
induced  him  to  write  an  operatic  piece  for  the  English 
Opera  House,  which  Arnold  accepted  through  Banim’s 
recommendation,  agreeing  to  give  £50  for  it;  and  Gerald 
wrote  to  his  brother:  “Much  as  I had  known  of  Banim’s 
kindness,  I hardly  looked  for  this  great  promptitude.” 
This  piece  was  entitled  “ The  Noyades  but  though 
Griffin  received  every  encouragement  to  write  on  from 
Arnold,  yet,  fearing  lest  it  might  be  supposed  that 
Banim  was  in  any  way  his  patron — for  he  had,  as  his 
brother  states,  “an  almost  morbid  horror  of  patron- 
ige” — he  sent  two  other  pieces,  under  the  nom  de  plume 
CG.  Joseph,”  to  the  Manager.  He  had  quite  sufficient 
influence  with  the  latter  to  secure  a favorable  reception 


i 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


185 


for  his  pieces ; as,  by  liis  essays  on  the  Italian  and  Eng- 
lish Operas,  published  in  “ The  Town,”  and  in  which  he 
had  endeavored  to  excite  a taste  for  purely  English  mu- 
sic, and  characteristic  English  recitative,  he  had  gained 
considerable  reputation.  The  facts  of  this  misunder- 
standing, within  the  scope  of  this  portion  of  Banim’s 
Memoir,  are  thus  related  by  Griffin’s  biographer : — 

44  Gerald,  though  fully  sensible  of  Mr.  Banim’s  kindness  and  friendly 
solicitude  about  him,  could  not  by  any  effort  wholly  divest  himself 
of  the  instinctive  reluctance  he  felt  to  place  himself  under  deep  ob- 
ligations to  one  upon  whose  good  nature  he  had  no  other  claim  than 
his  own  difficulties ; and  his  friend,  conscious  of  this  feeling,  was 
perhaps  too  observant  of  the  least  expression  which  betrayed  it.  The 
consequence  was — as  soon  as  an  opportunity  of  rendering  Gerald  a 
service  occurred — some  unhappy  misconception  on  both  sides.  After 
the  former  misunderstanding,  Mr.  Banim,  far  from  losing  interest  in 
Gerald’s  welfare,  sought  anxiously  to  render  him  services  in  the  only 
manner  he  saw  they  would  be  accepted,  by  procuring  him  a market 
for  his  labors.  Aware  of  his  dramatic  talent,  he  was  continually 
urging  him  to  write  for  the  theatres,  and  especially  for  the  English 
Opera  House,  where,  from  his  own  intimacy  with  Mr.  Arnold,  he  was 
sure  any  recommendation  of  his  would  meet  with  attention.  He  at 
last  obtained  a piece  from  Gerald,  to  be  presented  at  the  English 
Opera  House,  out  of  which,  some  time  after,  arose  the  following  cor- 
respondence : — 

4 Thursday , August  1 8th,  1826. 

4 Mr  dear  Sir, — Yesterday,  I handed  your  piece  to  Mr.  Arnold. 
He  read  it  instantly,  and  agreed  with  me  in  thinking  it  one  of  a high 
order.  Here  and  there,  however,  I suspect  you  will  have  to  cut  and 
alter — and  perhaps  your  songs  must  be  re-written,  and  appear  with 
less  poetry,  and  more  se^-ableness  about  them.  I conclude  that  your 
little  drama  will  be  produced  this  season,  and,  some  day  soon,  I’m  to 
have  the  pleasure  of  introducing  you  to  Mr.  Arnold,  who  thinks  very 
highly  of  your  dramatic  power,  I assure  you,  and  whom  you  will  find 
possessed  of  all  the  technical  acquirements  calculated  to  mature  it. 

4 My  dear  Sir,  faithfully  yours, 

‘John  Banim.-' 


186 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


‘ Thursday  Evening,  August  18 th,  1826. 

i My  dear  Sir, — I shall  be  obliged  to  go  into  the  city  to-morrow,  so 
that  I must  take  this  opportunity  of  mentioning  that  I have  just  seen 
Mr.  Arnold.  I gave  him  the  piece  with  the  alterations  of  which  you 
spoke  to  me,  and  he  said  he  would  read  it  again,  and  supposed  he 
should  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  in  a day  or  two.  Talking  of 
money  matters — for  he  spoke  of  the  mode  of  payment,  though  he 
said  nothing  decisive — I’m  such  a stupid  awkward  fool,  that  I could 
scarcely  understand  the  business  properly,  but  I thought  there  ap- 
peared to  be  some  feeling  on  his  part  of  unwillingness  to  incur  risk,  or 
some  such  thing.  If  this  was  at  all  the  case,  I certainly  should  not 
take  any  remuneration  previous  to  its  being  produced.  My  feeling 
on  this  subject  is  a great  deal  that  of  indifference,  but  if  the  piece 
were  found  profitable  to  the  theatre,  I should  by  no  means  be  content 
that  it  should  be  otherwise  to  me — and  that  is  all  I feel  about  it.  I 
should  be  perfectly  satisfied  to  let  the  piece  be  played,  and  let  Mr. 
Arnold  calculate  its  worth  by  its  success.  I trouble  you  with  this, 
my  dear  Sir,  in  the  hope  that  you  may  make  use  of  it,  as  far  as  you 
think  proper,  in  case  Mr.  Arnold  should  speak  to  you  on  the  matter, 
as  he  said  he  would.  A far  greater  object  than  any  payment  in  specie 
to  me  would  be  the  being  enabled  to  take  my  trial  soon.  How  can  I 
apologize  to  you  for  all  this? 

i I am,  my  dear  Sir,  yours  sincerely, 

‘ Gerald  Griffin.’ 

“ It  is  evident  that  the  feeling  of  1 indifference  ’ which  Gerald 
expresses  in  this  letter,  related  entirely  to  the  mode  of  payment,  as 
to  whether  it  should  be  absolute  and  unconditional,  or  dependent 
upon  the  success  of  the  piece.  Mr.  Banim,  however,  seems  unfortu- 
nately to  have  formed  some  misconception  of  the  expression,  as 
appears  by  the  following  letter  : — 

‘ Tuesday  Morning,  August  23 d,  1826. 

‘ My  dear  Sir, — Yesterday,  after  calling  another  day  without 
seeing  him,  Mr.  Arnold  spoke  to  me  finally  about  your  piece.  He  is 
well  disposed  towards  it,  and,  if  you  permit,  will  act  it.  I could  see 
none  of  the  indecisiveness  you  mentioned  in  your  last,  nor  did  he 
say  a word  that  could  make  me  believe  he  thought  he  ran  any  risk 
in  the  matter.  Perhaps  you  mistook  him  in  your  interview.  He  now 
desires  me  to  inform  you  that  you  may  get  paid  in  proportion  to  its 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM, 


187 


success  on  the  established  terms  of  his  theatre,  or  sell  your  drama  at 
once  for  fifty  pounds,  including  the  publishing  copyright.  Should 
you  prefer  the  former  mode  of  remuneration,  it  will  be  necessary  for 
you  to  ascertain,  by  calling  on  him,  what  are  the  usual  terms  of 
paying  authorship  in  his  theatre  by  nights.  I know  nothing  of  it.  I 
invariably  prefer  a certainty  beforehand ; indeed  he  got  a piece  of 
mine  for  less  than  he  offers  for  yours,  and  I believe  I have  not  been 
a loser.  Mr.  Howard  Payne  did  not,  I am  informed,  receive  more 
from  Covent  Garden,  either  for  his  Clare,  or  Charles  II. 

‘Miss  Kelly  has  been  ill,  and  perhaps  but  for  that  your  piece 
would  now  be  in  progress.  Mr.  Arnold  still  thinks  he  will  produce 
it  this  season.  You  inform  me  that  your  feeling  on  that  subject  is 
one  of  a great  deal  of  indifference.  This  I must  regret,  particularly 
as  I have  been  the  cause  of  giving  you  trouble  in  a matter  which 
does  not  interest  you.  I assure  you,  at  the  time  I first  wrote  for  the 
English  Opera  House,  and  waited  month  after  month  even  for  an 
answer,  I would  not  have  been  indifferent  to  whatever  chance  might 
have  got  my  piece  read  and  answered  two  hours  after  it  had  been 
handed  in,  and  the  transaction  finally  brought  to  a close  in  a few  days. 

‘ I am,  my  dear  Sir,  truly  yours, 

‘ John  Banim. 

‘ However  you  may  decide,  Mr.  Arnold  hopes  to  close  with  yourself.’ 

6 Tuesday  Evening,  August  23 d,  1826. 

* My  dear  Sir, — I have  just  received  your  letter,  which  I hasten  to 
answer.  I am  exceedingly  obliged  to  you  for  all  the  trouble  you 
have  taken  with  the  play,  and  am  most  gratified  with  the  conclu- 
sion. I feel  the  entire  extent  of  the  obligation  which  you  have  con- 
ferred upon  me  ; I always  felt  it,  and  I thought  I said  so  in  my  first 
letter,  but  a mistake  you  have  fallen  into  with  respect  to  my  last, 
renders  it  necessary  for  me  to  explain. 

‘ The  indifference  of  which  I spoke  (as  probably  you  will  find  by 
referring  to  the  letter)  related  entirely  to  Mr.  Arnold’s  mode  of  pay- 
ment, or  indeed  payment  at  all  in  the  first  instance,  as,  from  the 
conversation  I had  with  you  on  the  subject,  and  the  subsequent  inter- 
view with  Mr.  Arnold,  I concluded  that  nothing  worth  being  very 
anxious  about  was  to  be  done  in  the  way  of  money,  at  a summer 
theatre.  It  was  far  from  an  object  of  indifference  to  me,  however, 
that  a play  of  mine  should  be  produced.  When  you  thought  I meant 
to  say  this,  you  gave  me  credit  for  a greater  piece  of  coxcombry  than 


188 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


I was  conscious  of.  It  has  been  the  object  of  my  life  for  many  years; 
I could  not  profess  to  be  indifferent  about  it,  still  less  could  I be 
indifferent  to  the  nature  or  extent  of  the  obligation  when  conferred. 
Let  me  beg  of  you  to  take  this  general  assurance  in  preference  to  any 
construction  which  possibly  may  be  put  on  casual  words  or  sentences. 

‘ I am,  my  dear  Sir,  very  truly  yours, 

1 Gerald  Griffin.  j 

“ To  this  letter,  which  certainly  seems  sufficiently  explanatory,  Mr. 
Banim  unfortunately  returned  no  answer,  believing,  as  he  afterwards 
mentions,  that  both  parties  were  content,  and  all  cause  of  misunder- 
standing removed.  Gerald,  however,  very  naturally  expected  some 
acknowledgment  of  the  fact,  and  not  receiving  it,  ceased  to  urge  any 
renewal  of  an  intimacy,  the  interruption  of  which  he  felt  did  not  rest 
with  him.  It  would  seem  extraordinary  that  Mr.  Banim,  after  having 
always  evinced  such  a kind  interest  in  Gerald’s  affairs,  and  received 
so  ample  an  explanation  of  the  slight  misconception  which  occurred, 
did  not  evince  some  sign  of  returning  confidence  : but  I believe  the 
fact  to  be,  that  before  an  opportunity  occurred  for  declaring  it,  a new 
and  more  annoying  cause  of  jealousy  arose.  At  the  time  that  Mr. 
Banim’s  works  were  in  the  very  highest  estimation,  and  when,  indeed, 
the  assistance  of  no  new  author  could  have  added  to  their  reputation, 
he  offered  Gerald  a place  in  the  O’Hara  Family,  and  urged  him  to 
contribute  a tale.  To  a person  wholly  unknown,  and  whose  most 
successful  work  could  not  have  procured  for  him  a third  of  the  price 
from  the  booksellers  which  could  be  obtained  for  it  as  one  of  the 
O’Hara  Tales,  this  was  a very  generous  proposal.  It  was,  however, 
declined  by  Gerald,  on  the  plea  that  he  was  unequal  to  the  task. 
Hollandtide  appeared  some  months  subsequent  to  this,  and  almost 
immediately  after  the  conclusion  of  the  correspondence  respecting 
the  drama  accepted  by  Mr.  Arnold.  It  wras  hardly  surprising  that, 
under  such  circumstances,  Mr.  Banim  should  feel  he  was  treated  dis- 
ingenuously, especially  as  he  was  convinced  Gerald  had  Hollandtide 
written  at  the  time  he  declared  his  inability  to  write  a tale  for  the 
O’Hara  collection.  This,  however,  was  really  not  the  case.  Most 
of  the  tales  in  Hollandtide  were  written  in  an  inconceivably  short 
space  of  time  (not  more  than  two  or  three  months)  before  their  pub- 
lication, and  entirely  at  my  constant  urging ; and  I can  testify  from 
the  difficulty  I had  in  inducing  him  to  make  the  effort  at  all,  how 
very  diffident  and  doubtful  he  was  of  success.  I do  not  mean  that  he 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


189 


exactly  underrated  his  own  powers,  but  I believe  he  did  not  think 
that  his  engagements  with  the  periodicals,  which  he  could  not  give 
up,  would  allow  him  sufficient  time  and  consideration  to  attain  the 
success  he  was  ambitious  of,  in  a regular  work  of  fiction.  In  any 
event,  indeed,  I do  not  believe  he  would  have  joined  an  author  of 
established  fame  in  his  labors,  however  advantageous  it  might  be  in 
a pecuniary  point  of  view.  If  there  was  any  one  object  dearer  to 
him  than  another  in  his  literary  career,  it  was  the  ambition  of  attain- 
ing rank  and  fame  by  his  own  unaided  efforts,  or  at  least  without 
placing  himself  under  obligations  to  those  on  whom  he  felt  he  had 
no  claim ; but  independent  of  this,  and  highly  as  he  must  have  ap- 
preciated the  kindness  of  Mr.  Banim’s  proposal,  he  might  not  unnatu- 
rally conclude  that  the  public  would  consider  his  own  early  efforts 
as  indebted  for  success  more  to  the  assistance  of  his  eminent  friend 
than  to  any  original  or  independent  merit  they  possessed.  He  had 
besides,  on  all  occasions,  an  almost  morbid  horror  of  patronage,  aris- 
ing partly  from  a natural  independence  of  mind,  but  yet  more  from 
the  depressing  disappointments  of  his  early  literary  life.  When  first 
he  came  to  London,  he  sought  by  a few  introductions  and  the  friendly 
exertions  of  literary  acquaintances  to  bring  his  productions  favor- 
ably before  the  public,  but  without  the  slightest  success.  His  powers 
seemed  to  be  undervalued  precisely  in  proportion  as  he  made  in- 
terest to  procure  them  consideration,  until  at  length,  disgusted  by 
repeated  failure,  he  resolved  in  future  to  trust  wholly  to  his  own  un- 
friended exertions,  and  if  they  should  not  sustain  him,  to  abandon 
the  struggle.  It  was  soon  after  forming  this  resolution  that  success 
first  dawned  upon  his  efforts,  and  that  he  was  anxiously  sought  for  as 
an  anonymous  contributor  by  the  editors  of  periodicals,  who,  when 
he  was  previously  introduced  to  them,  would  give  him  nothing  to  do. 
In  proportion  as  his  success  increased,  the  remembrance  of  the  many 
mortifying  disappointments  he  had  formerly  experienced  seemed  to 
sink  more  deeply  into  his  mind,  and  he  gradually  acquired  a degree 
of  sensitiveness  with  respect  to  patronage  that  made  him  recoil  from 
even  the  ordinary  and  necessary  means  of  obtaining  attention  for  his 
pieces.  This  may  have  influenced  him  much  less  with  respect  to  Mr. 
Banim  than  others.”  * 

Matters  rested  thus,  and  we  shall  hereafter,  at  the 
proper  time,  resume  the  history  of  th^s  disagreement, 

* Life  of  Gerald  Griffin,  Esq.  By  his  Brother. 


190 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


and  the  happy,  honest,  ingenuous  reconciliation  of  these 
two  excellent  men. 

Michael  returned  to  Kilkenny  in  August,  1826  ; and 
when  he  left  London,  “The  Nowlans”  was  entirely 
finished,  and  he  had  acted  as  the  critic  upon  it  ; but 
in  six  weeks  after  he  had  reached  his  home,  “ Peter  of 
the  Castle  ” was  forwarded  to  him  for  his  corrections. 
This  story  is  founded  upon  the  character  of  one  w£ll 
known  in  the  neighborhood  of  Kilkenny  some  few  years 
before  the  period  of  which  we  write.  “ The  Nowlans  ” 
and  “Peter  of  the  Castle”  form  the  second  series  of 
“ The  Tales  by  the  O’Hara  Family,”  which  was  pub- 
lished in  November,  1826.  The  series  was  thus  dedi- 
cated : — “ To  Ireland’s  True  Son  and  First  Poet,  Thomas 
Moore,  Esq.  With  the  Highest  National  Pride  in  his 
Genius  as  an  Irishman,  these  Tales  are  Inscribed.”  It 
would  appear  that  Moore,  although  blundering  in  his 
recollection  of  the  words  of  the  dedication,  was  pleased 
with  it ; and  when,  in  the  year  1830,  he  visited  Kilkenny, 
whilst  staying  with  the  late  Mr.  Bryan  of  Jenkinstown, 
he  made  the  following  entry  in  his  “ Diary,”  under  date 
September  8th  : — “Walked  Avith  Tom  into  Kilkenny,  to 
show  it  to  him.  Called  at  Mr.  Banim’s  (the  father  of 
the  author  of  the  ‘ Tales  of  the  O’Hara  Family,’  who 
keeps  a little  powder  and  shot  shop  in  Kilkenny),  and 
not  finding  him  at  home,  left  a memorandum*  to  say 
that  I had  called  out  of  respect  to  his  son.  Took  care 

* The  memorandum  was  as  follows,  and  old  Mr.  Banim  valued  it  most  highly, 
and  always  carried  it  about  with  him  in  his  pocket-book : — “ Mr.  Thomas  Moore 
called  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  father  of  the  author  of  ‘ The  O’Hara  Family.’  ” 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


191 


to  impress  upon  Tom  how  great  the  merit  of  a young 
man  must  be  who,  with  not  one  hundredth  part  of  the 
advantages  of  education  that  he  (Tom)  had  in  his  power, 
could  yet  so  distinguish  himself  as  to  cause  this  kind  of 
tribute  of  respect  to  be  paid  to  his  father.  I have  not,  it 
is  true,  read  more  than  one  of  Banim’s  stories  myself, 
but  that  one  was  good,  and  I take  the  rest  upon  credit. 
Besides,  he  dedicated  his  second  series  to  me,  calling  me 
‘ Ireland’s  free  son  and  true  poet/  which  was  handsome 
of  him.’’  * 

It  would,  perhaps,  be  almost  impossible  to  suggest 
any  plot  more  powerfully  conceived,  and  more  vigorously 
elaborated,  than  that  of  “ The  Nowlans.”  It  is,  in  truth, 
the  analysis  of  passion  : love  in  every  phase — its  pathos 
and  its  rage  ; and  when  we  close  the  book,  saddened  by 
the  fate  of  poor  Letty  Nowlan  and  her  misguided  lover, 
we  feel  how  truly  the  epigraph  which  Banim  selected 
from  Gray  describes  the  lot  of  the  hero  and  heroine  : — 

“ These  shall  the  fury  passions  tear — 

The,vultures  of  the  mind.  ” 

The  whole  vigor  of  Banim’s  genius  was  engaged  in 
the  construction  of  this  novel ; and  it  was,  in  its  first 
edition,  disfigured  by  some  passages  which  his  more 
sober  judgment  led  him  afterwards  to  omit.  If,  how- 
ever, we  take  this  novel  solely  as  a specimen  of  what 
Banim’s  genius  could  enable  him  to  achieve,  and  if  we 
compare  all  its  parts,  considering  them  as  a whole,  it 

* “Memoirs,  Journal,  and  Correspondence  of  Thomas  Moore.”  Edited  by 
the  Right  Hon.  Lord  John  RusselL  Vol.  VI.  p.  136. 


1132 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


must  be  classed  amongst  the  most  powerful  fictions  of 
the  time,  and  if  not  the  first,  certainly  of  the  first  rank. 
Doubtless  if  it  be  not  taken  as  a whole*,  the  melodramatic 
character  appears  too  boldly,  but  this  is  an  objection 
which  might,  with  equal  force,  be  urged  against  “ The 
Bride  of  Lammermoor  ” and  “ Eugene  Aram.”  Pos- 
sibly it  was  through  regarding  particular  characters  only 
that  Miss  Mitford  was  induced  to  write — “John  Banim 
was  the  founder  of  that  school  of  Irish  novelists,  which, 
always  excepting  its  blameless  purity,  so  much  resembles 
the  modern  romantic  French  school,  that,  if  it  were 
possible  to  suspect  Messieurs  Victor  Hugo,  Eugene  Sue, 
and  Alexandre  Dumas  of  reading  the  English,  which 
they  never  approach  without  such  ludicrous  blunders, 
one  might  fancy  that  many-volumed  tribe  to  have  stolen 
their  peculiar  inspiration  from  the  ‘O’Hara  Family.’  ”* 
The  success  of  “The  Nowlans”  was  most  satisfac- 
tory indeed  ; but  as  reputation  and  competence  were 
reached,  disease  and  pain  advanced  with  more  violent 
and  confirmed  tenacity.  Still  he  wrote  on  ; none  knew 
how  nobly  and  bravely  he  worked  ; for,  though  it  was 
easy  to  measure  his  hours  of  toil,  who  could  measure 
that  toil  done  in  wringing,  agonizing,  burning  pain  ? 
“ He  looked  forty,”  says  Michael,  “ though  not  eight- 
and-twenty  his  hair  was  grizzled,  his  face  wrinkled, 
and  he  tottered  as  he  walked,  if  the  distance  were  many 

* “ Recollections  of  a Literary  Life  ; or.  Books,  Places,  and  People.”  By  Mary 
Russell  Mitford.  Vol.  I.  chap.  2.  “ Hardress  Cregan,”  in  “The  Collegians,” 

appears  to  us  much  more  French  than  either  “Tresham”in  “The  Fetches,” 
or  “John  Nowlan.” 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


193 


doors  off.  During  four  months  he  never  communicated 
with  his  family  in  Kilkenny,  because  he  would  not  tell 
them  of  his  illness ; and  at  length,  when  Christmas, 
with  its  joys  and  sorrows,  had  come  round  once  more, 
and  when  he  believed  that  his  health  was  somewhat 
improved,  he  wrote  thus  to  Michael,  in  the  old  hopeful 
tone,  bowing  before  the  will  of  the  Almighty  in  that 
same  spirit  in  which  Galileo  said  of  his  lost  sight,  “ it  has 
pleased  God  that  it  should  be  so,  and  it  must  please 
me  also.”  In  this  letter  nothing  is  omitted  or  forgotten, 
and  home  is  home  still,  and  every  memory  of  other  days 
is  around  his  heart,  as  warmly  cherished  as  if  he  had 
known  neither  the  elevation  of  success  nor  the  depres- 
sion of  withering  sickness  and  disappointment : — 

“ London,  Christmas  Day , 182G. 

“ My  dear  Michael, — I have  just  got  your  letter  of  the 
21st.  How  could  you  suppose  I should  forget  the  hob- 
nob at  six  this  evening?  We  will  chink  our  glasses  to 
you  with  hearty  good  will  and  fond  remembrance. 

<£  When  you  were  with  me  you  insisted  on  my  promise 
that  I should  be  very  candid  with  you  in  future  regard- 
ing the  state  of  my  health.  It  was  an  injudicious  en- 
gagement for  me  to  make,  or  for  you  to  exact.  Why 
should  I afflict  those  who  love  me  ? 

“ I have  been  very  ill,  but,  under  good  treatment,  am 
now  much  better.  The  pains  came  on  with  violence, 
accompanied  by  numbness  and  chilliness  in  the  limbs, 
and  general  exhaustion.  So  I set  to  work  for  the  best 
advice.  You  were  right  in  saying  that  the  pains  are  not 
at  all  rheumatic  or  gouty.  My  most  excellent,  as  well 
as  eminent,  medical  friend,  after  a long  examination 

9 


194 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


of  me,  touching  my  pursuits  and  mode  of  life  for  some 
years,  and  a careful  consideration  of  the  symptoms,  de- 
cides that  the  brain  pan,  or  my  substitute  for  such,  has 
been  overworked  ; and  that  nervous  debility,  locally  pro- 
ducing my  ailment,  has  been  the  result.  His  treatment 
is  preventive  as  well  as  stimulating.  I am  interdicted 
from  much  study  of  any  kind  ; desired  to  take  my  ease  ; 
to  live  well,  at  the  same  time  that  I swallow  tonics,  and 
submit  my  poor  body  to  the  shower  bath.  My  dear 
Michael,  this  is  a hard  sentence  against  me.  If  I am 
not  to  study,  what  am  I to  do  ? But  let  me  not  mur- 
mur. Let  me  not  forget  the  goodness  of  God  to  one 
so  unbefriended  as  I was,  nor  anticipate  the  withdrawal 
of  His  guardianship.  With  His  help  I shall  mend,  and 
the  prospect  will  brighten  again. 

“By  the  way,  I shall  never  forget  the  first  morning 
I took  a shower  bath.  A shock  I had  reckoned  on,  but 
for  the  tremendous  one  I felt,  my  mind  had  made  no 
provision.  I had  scarcely  touched  the  string,  and 
brought  down  the  first  shower,  when  I manfully  plunged 
straight  forward,  bursting  open  the  door  of  the  bath,  and 
allowing  the  water  to  inundate  the  room.  To  heighten 
the  scene,  Ellen  and  a favorite  cat  were  slumbering  in 
bed  in  the  next  apartment,  and  when  they  heard  the 
mixed  commotion,  they  repeatedly  manifested,  each  in 
her  own  way,  their  extreme  astonishment  and  alarm 
thereat. 

“To  return.  I said  I am  much  better,  and  but  for 
the  diabolical  London  weather  that  surrounds  me, — 
enough  to  relax  the  system  of  the  big  metal  Achilles 
in  Hyde  Park, — I should  be  better  still. 

“ It  is  some  time  since  I have  written  to  you  : I did 
not  care  to  annoy  you  when  I was  very  ill,  and  I dare 
not,  after  my  engagement,  misrepresent  facts.  As  far 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANI1I. 


195 


as  acute  torture,  sleepless  nights,  and  total  prostration  of 
frame  could  go,  my  worst  enemies  need  not  have  wished 
me  to  suffer  more. 

“ The  second  series  go  on  right  well ; but  the  pub- 
lishers say  they  are  too  strongly  written,  too  harrowing, 
and,  in  parts,  too  warm  and  impure.  The  latter  portion 
of  this  judgment,  I regret  to  say,  is  merited.  I have 
made  a mistake,  and  must  not  again  fall  into  the  same 
error. 

“Nowa  word  or  two  as  to  yourself.  I like  the  sketch 
you  have  sent  me  extremely  well.  You  tell  me  you  have 
read  extensively,  and  that  you  have  good  materials  for 
a story,  if  you  thought  yourself  able  to  turn  them  to 
account.  I tell  you  that  you  are  able.  One  of  your 
greatest  drawbacks  is  your  mean  opinion  of  yourself. 
If  we  do  not  feel  that  we  have  power,  we  will  not  at- 
tempt to  exercise  it.  I saw  and  said  from  the  beginning, 
from  my  view  of  your  first  scrap  of  Crohoore,  that  you 
had  the  requisite  qualifications  ; and  now,  when  my 
opinion  has  been  strengthened  by  that  of  the  public,  I 
urge  you  to  think  better  of  yourself — go  on  with  your 
intended  tale — I will  handle  it  as  before — have  confi- 
dence in  yourself,  and,  with  God’s  help,  the  result  will 
please  you. 

“Now — here  goes  for  an  effort  : I will  walk  to  the 
next  post-office  as  well  as  I can,  to  drop  in  this  letter, 
then  home  to  a rib  of  beef,  and  then  ‘the  people  over 
the  water  ’ — hip,  hip.  hurra  ! 

“ This  with  best  heart’s  love  from  Ellen  and  from 

“J.  B.” 

“The  last  paragrajoh  of  this  letter,’’  writes  Michael, 
“may  require  explanation. 

“ At  home  in  Kilkenny,  as  the  clock  struck  six  on  each 


196 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


Christmas  evening,  all  glasses  were  filled  to  the  brim: 
when  the  last  vibration  ceased,  my  father  raised  his 
bumper,  and  gave  the  toast — 

‘ Health  and  long  life  to  poor  John  and  Ellen 

FAR  AWAY.’ 

By  agreement,  as  the  clock  struck  the  same  hour  in 
London  (we  overlooked  the  difference  of  time)  there 
was  the  answering  toast  of — 

‘Health  and  happiness  to  all  at  home.’ 

Even  when  our  mother  was  no  longer  able  to  leave  her 
bed,  her  glass  of  wine  was  brought  to  her,  and  she 
joined  in  the  pledge  from  the  inner  room.” 


CHAPTER  Y. 


ANXIETY  FOB  FAME  AS  A DRAMATIC  POET COMPOSITION  OF  HIS 

TRAGEDY  “ SYLLA  ” HISTORY  OF  THE  TRAGEDY COMPARISON 

OF  IT  WITH  THE  “ SYLLA  ” OF  DERRICK  AND  JOUY EXTRACTS 

FROM  IT LETTERS PROPOSED  VISIT  TO  THE  SOUTH  OF  ENG- 
LAND  RESTORED  HEALTH — FRIENDSHIP  OF  JOHN  STERLING 

VISIT  TO  CAMBRIDGE RESTORED  HEALTH  OF  MRS.  BANIM 

URGING  MICHAEL  BANIM  TO  CONTINUE  JOINT  AUTHORSHIP — 

LETTERS BUOYANT  SPIRITS  AND  NEW  PROJECTS REMOVAL  TO 

EASTBOURNE OPINION  OF  MICHAEL’S  TALE,  “ THE  CROPPY  ” 

ACCOUNT  OF  ITS  COMPOSITION A DAUGHTER  BORN  TO  JOHN 

BANIM CORRESPONDENCE  WITH  GERALD  GRIFFIN REMOVAL 

TO  SEVEN  OAKS ADMIRABLE  LETTER  TO  MICHAEL  UPON  THE 

COMPOSITION  OF  A NOVEL  AND  THE  SELECTION  OF  CHARACTERS 

INCIDENTS  SUGGESTED  AND  OLD  STORIES  RECALLED THE 

BEAUTIES  AND  ART  OF  GREAT  NOVELISTS  DISPLAYED LETTER 

FROM  MICHAEL  SHOWING  RESULT  OF  THIS  ADVICE  IN  THE  PRO- 
DUCTION OF  “THE  GHOST  HUNTER  ” ILLNESS LETTER  TO 

MICHAEL LITERARY  OCCUPATIONS  DESCRIBED BEAUTIFUL 

ACCOUNT  OF  HIS  HOME  LIFE HIS  CONDITION,  THE  BODY  RACKED, 

BUT  THE  MIND  GLOWING DELIGHT  AT  RENEWED  FRIENDSHIP 

OF  GERALD  GRIFFIN THEIR  LETTERS  TO  EACH  OTHER RE- 
MOVAL TO  BLACKHEATH ILLNESS  AND  PROSTRATION  OF 

STRENGTH REMOVAL  TO  THE  FRENCH  COAST  ADVISED  BY  PHY- 
SICIANS  ANOTHER  SERIES  OF  “ TALES  BY  THE  o’HARA  FAMILY” 

HURRIEDLY  WRITTEN  BY  JOHN  BANIM,  AND  PUBLISHED  UNDER 
THE  TITLE  OF  “ THE  DENOUNCED  ” — REMOVAL  TO  FRANCE. 

It  will  have  been  remarked  by  the  attentive  student  of 
Banim’s  mind,  as  exhibited  in  his  letters,  that  the  old 
love  of  poetry  and  of  dramatic  composition,  recurs  fre- 
quently in  evident  forms.  It  was,  indeed,  never  entirely 


198 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


lost,  and  lie  seems  to  have  cherished  hopes  of  brilliant 
and  steady  success  in  that  most  difficult  of  all  literary 
labors — the  production  of  a really  poetical,  original 
drama. 

He  was  ever,  in  his  leisure  hours — and  these,  truly, 
were  few — engaged  in  poetic  composition  ; he  had  no 
pleasures  save  those  springing  from  literature.  In 
this  he  did  not  resemble  Scott,  or  Byron,  or  Pope,  or 
Moore  ; and  he,  more  than  any  literary  man  of  our 
time,  could  declare,  with  the  great  Chancellor  of  France, 
D’Aguesseau,  “ le  changement  d’etude  est  toujours  un 
delassement  pour  moi.”  The  hero  of  his  drama  was 
always  selected  from  those  historic  names  whose  deeds, 
and  crimes  or  virtues,  have  afforded  the  fullest  scope 
for  the  display  of  the  genius  of  the  dramatist  and  the 
art  of  the  actor.  It  is  also  worthy  of  remark  that,  in 
all  his  dramas,  as  in  all  his  novels,  Banim  ever  chooses 
the  portrayal  of  the  wildest  and  fiercest  passions,  or 
the  most  harrowing  and  striking  situations. 

Ancient  history  seems  to  have  been  the  storehouse 
whence  he  selected  his  plots ; “ Damon  and  Pythias  ” 
was  one  of  these  subjects  thus  drawn,  and  of  its  treat- 
ment the  reader  has  been  already  enabled  to  judge  ; 
but,  in  the  latter  months  of  1826,  Banim  commenced 
the  composition  of  his  tragedy  entitled  “ Sylla,”  and  it 
was  completed  in  the  last  week  of  January,  1827.  He 
appears  to  have  supposed  that  his  play  was  the  first 
attempt  to  paint  the  character  of  Sylla  in  the  English 
language  ; and,  doubtless,  his  was  the  first  attempt 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


199 


worthy  the  theme.  A drama  in  three  acts,  and  entitled 
“ Sylla,”  was,  however,  writ-ten  by  Derrick,  and  printed, 
though  never  performed,  in  1753  ; it  grossly  miscon- 
ceives the  character  of  the  Dictator,  and  makes  him,  in 
addition,  sing  three  songs. 

By  a strange  coincidence  Derrick  founded  this  drama 
on,  and  in  part  translated  it  from,  a French  play  of  the 
early  part  of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  Banim  formed 
his  tragedy  upon,  and  in  part  translated  it  from,  the 
“Sylla”  of  M.  Jouy  : and  thus  it  comes  to  pass  that 
the  only  dramatic  authors  who  have  taken  Sylla  for 
their  subject  have  had  one  common  fountain  of  inspi- 
ration— a French  original.  Of  his  own  design,  and  of 
his  opinions  of  Sylla’s  character  as  conceived  by  M. 
Jouy,  Banim  thus  wrote  : — 

“ The  present  is,  so  far  as  the  writer  is  aware,  the  first  attempt  in 
the  English  language  to  illustrate,  by  dramatic  action,  the  character 
of  Sylla,  and  to  account  plausibly  for  the  motives  for  his  last  astound- 
ing act  of  power — namely,  his  laying  down  the  dictatorship.  That 
the  man,  and  the  events  of  his  public  life,  particularly  the  one  speci- 
fied, are  strikingly  dramatic,  will  not  be  denied  ; and  the  previous 
want  of  an  English  tragedy,  built  with  such  materials,  is  almost  as 
striking.  Perhaps  it  may  have  been  caused  by  the  apparent  difficulty 
of  the  task.  It  is  quite  true  that  history  supplies  very  little  to  make 
such  a task  easy.  Sylla’s  heart  and  mind  have  been  less  unveiled  to 
us  by  old  writers  than  have  those  of  any  other  celebrated  personage 
of  antiquity.  His  own  reasons  for  some  of  his  actions — actions,  some- 
times noble,  sometimes  atrocious,  always  startling — remain  at  best 
but  as  matters  of  guess-work  to  us.  The  outline  of  his  character  is 
blurred  to  our  eyes.  We  do  not  understand  him.  Caesar,  Antony, 
Brutus,  Catiline,  and  a score  other  citizens  of  old  Rome,  occur  to  our 
thoughts  like  intimate,  well-known  acquaintances,  while  of  Sylla  our 
notions  are  vague  and  unformed.  As  to  what  must  have  been  truly 
his  state  of  mind,  when  he  laid  down  the  palm  and  purple,  and  dis- 


200 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


missed  bis  lictors  in  the  Forum  amid  a crowd  of  people,  from  scarce 
one  of  whom  he  had  not  good  reason  to  dread  a stern  and  dangerous 
remonstrance  regarding  his  reign  as  dictator — upon  his  reasons  for 
this  prodigious  and  sublime  act  of  hardihood,  history  is  silent.  And 
hence  indeed  would  seem  to  arise  such  a difficulty  as  had  just  been 
conjectured.  If  you  make  a man  the  hero  of  a play,  you  must  neces- 
sarily make  him  speak  in  his  own  person  ; and  just  as  necessarily, 
sooner  or  later,  in  the  progress  of  your  five  acts,  you  must  make  him 
account,  out  of  his  own  lips,  for  what  he  does.  But  how  is  this  to  be 
easily  effected  with  an  historical  character  of  whose  incentives  to 
what  he  does  ancient  historians  seem  to  decline  all  explanation  ? 

“ In  another  country,  however,  a tragedy  of  ‘ Sylla’  has  been  pro- 
duced, and  its  author,  M.  Jouy,  of  the  French  Academy,  has,  in  his 
own  apprehension,  found  no  obstacle  in  the  way.  Upon  the  authority 
of  Montesquieu,  that  gentleman  refers  to  what  can  be  nothing,  or 
little  less  than  patriotism,  not  only  Sylla’s  abdication,  but  even  his 
usurpation  of  the  dictatorship,  thus  (I  quote  from  M.  Jouy’s  preface 
to  his  tragedy): — 

“‘Sous  la  plume  de  l’auteur  de  la  Grandeur  et  Decadence  des 
Domains,  Sylla  devient  le  r^formateur  de  Rome  ; et  veut  les  ramener 
& Famour  de  la  liberte,  par  les  horreurs  de  la  tyrannie,  et  quand  il 
a suffisament  abus6  du  pouvoir  dans  1’interGt  de  la  republique,  qu’il 
ne  separe  pas  de  ses  vengeances  personnelles,  satisfait  de  la  legon 
sanglante  qu’il  a donne  k ses  compatriots,  il  brise  lui-m&me  la  palme 
du  dictateur  qu’il  a usurpe.’ 

“ And  therefore — 

“ ‘ Ce  n’est  point  Sylla  si  imparfaitement  esquisse  par  Plutarque, 
c’est  ce  Sylla  si  admirablement  indique  par  Montesquieu,  que  je 
veuille  k reproduire  sur  la  scene.’ 

“ But  there  is  no  reason,  notwithstanding  M.  Jouy’s  preference, 
why  Montesquieu,  who  lived  about  seventeen  hundred  years  after 
Sylla,  should  be  authority  for  his  patriotism,  when  Plutarch,  who 
lived  only  about  two  hundred  and  twenty  years  after  him,  says  noth- 
ing on  the  subject ; nor  Appian,  who  was  a contemporary  of  Plutarch  ; 
nor  Valerius  Maximus,  who  lived  very  nearly  a century  still  closer  to 
Sylla.  And  since  Montesquieu  could  not  have  derived  his  reading  of 
Sylla’s  motives  from  these  authorities,  where  did  he  get  it? 

“ There  is  a point  still  more  perilous  to  M.  Jouy,  and  a curious  and 
rather  astonishing  one  it  is.  What  M.  Jouy  says  for  Montesquieu, 
that  writer  does  not  say  for  himself.  Nay,  he  says  the  very  contrary. 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


201 


as  follows : — ‘ La  fantaisie  qui  lui  fait  quitter  la  dictature  semble  ren- 
dre  la  vie  a la  republique,  mais  dans  la  fureur  de  ses  sueces  il  avait 
fait  des  choses  qui  mirent  la  Rome  dans  Pimpossibilitl  de  conserver 
sa  liberte.’ — And  Montesquieu  supplies  a frightful  list  of  the  things 
which  Sylla  did,  tending  to  destroy  the  liberties  of  Rome.  It  will 
further  be  noticed,  from  this  last  quotation,  that  instead  of  ascribing 
to  patriotism  Sylla’s  abdication  of  the  dictatorship,  Montesquieu,  very 
conveniently  for  the  exercise  of  his  own  penetration,  absolutely  calls 
his  motive  or  impulse  upon  that  occasion,  ‘ whim,’  and  nothing  else. 
But  the  fact  is,  M.  Jouy,  in  presenting  to  a Paris  audience  a tragedy 
of  ‘Sylla,’  tried,  in  order  to  insure  success  for  his  drama,  to  paint  in 
its  hero  the  character  of  Napoleon  ; and,  as  history  stood  in  the  way 
of  such  a project,  he  had  very  little  hesitation  in  getting  rid  of  it. 
He  hit  his  mark,  however,  with  indeed  considerable  assistance  from 
Talma,  who  gave  an  imitation  of  the  companion  of  his  youth,  even 
to  the  adjustment  of  his  own  stage  wig  ; and  the  worthy  Parisians 
flocked  night  after  night  to  enjoy,  under  the  name  of  the  old  Roman 
dictator,  the  political  sentiments,  allusions,  and  even  personal  pecu- 
liarities of  the  great  chief  then  uppermost  in  their  thoughts — I was 
going  to  say  affections.  M.  Jouy  could  have  written  his  tragedy  in  a 
fitter  view  than  this. 

Having  said  so  much  in  admission  of  the  difficulties  of  the  present 
attempt,  I hope  I shall  not  incur  the  charge  of  temerity  for  having 
engaged  in  it  at  all.  With  very  little  assistance  certainly,  I have  had 
to  sit  down,  and,  after  careful  study,  venture  a new  solution  of  the 
enigma  of  Sylla’s  dark  character,  and,  above  all,  of  the  last  grand 
act  of  his  public  existence.  If  I have  failed,  let  me  be  judged  only 
as  severely  as  the  reader’s  recollections  of  history  will  warrant.  Nor 
shall  I attempt  to  conciliate  in  a preface  his  good-natured  disposi- 
tions towards  my  dramatic  scenes,  by  a detailed  account  of  why  and 
wherefore  I constructed  them  as  they  are,  for  if  they  do  not  tell  their 
own  story,  so  far  at  least,  they  tell  nothing.  It  is  useless  trying  to 
argue  a man  into  a conviction  of  the  plausible.” 


Banim  did  not,  however,  by  the  foregoing  observations, 
intend  to  depreciate  the  merit  of  M.  Jouy’s  tragedy  : 
Banim’s  drama  was  one  of  action  rather  than  of  narra- 
tion ; three  years  being  substituted  for  the  three  hours 


202 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


of  M.  Jouy,  and  nearly  the  whole  of  the  non-historical 
characters  of  the  French  tragedy  being  abandoned.  The 
two  first  acts  of  the  tragedy,  as  written  by  Banim,  have 
no  counterparts  in  that  of  Jouy  : but  the  audience  scene 
in  the  third  act  is  taken  from  his  play,  whilst  its  first 
sixteen  and  six  concluding  lines  are  translated  from 
it:  all  the  intermediate  passages  are  original  in  Banim’s 
tragedy.  The  scene  between  Julius  and  Sylla  in  the 
fourth  act  is  parallel  to  that  between  Claudius  and 
Sylla  in  the  French  play.  The  historical  situation  in 
the  fifth  act  was  open  to  both,  but  the  incident  of 
Julius  attempting  to  stab  Sylla  is  probably  suggested 
by  the  scene  in  the  French  play,  in  which  the  imaginary 
heroine,  Valeria,  endeavors  to  accomplish  the  same 
deed ; the  chief  identity,  however,  between  the  two 
plays  is  the  adoption  by  Banim  of  Jouy’s  Catiline. 

This  tragedy,  although  completed  in  the  year  1827, 
was  not  offered  for  representation  until  the  spring  of 
1837,  and  was  performed  at  the  Theatre  Boyal,  Hawkins 
Street,  Dublin,  in  the  month  of  June,  of  the  last-named 
year.  Of  its  cast  and  reception  we  shall  write  at  the 
proper  time. 

Whilst  laboring  in  the  old  track,  with  hopes  bright 
and  buoyant,  amid  pains  and  wants,  he  lived  but  in  the 
terrible  battle  against  those  ever-recurring  illnesses  of 
which  he  so  often  writes,  yet  so  seldom  complains. 
And  now  to  his  own  woes  was  added  that  weak  and 
uncertain  health  which  preyed  upon  his  Ellen.  “ Re- 
pose,’’  said  the  physician,  “is  necessary  for  both.”  But 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


203 


where  Was  repose  for  the  deep  heart  that  knew  no  joy 
save  that  which  sprang  from  honest,  noble,  mental 
work? — what  repose  was  there  for  one  whose  support 
was  wrung  from  energetic  thought — from,  as  he  wrote, 
“teasing  the  brain  as  wool -combers  tease  wool,  to 
keep  the  fire  in  and  the  pot  boiling  ?”  When  they  told 
him  of  repose,  of  rest,  of  change  of  air  and  scene,  and 
when  he  marked  his  own  worn  and  haggard  face,  whicfi 
Michael  describes  as  “making  him  look  fully  forty, 
though  little  more  than  twenty,”  how  bitterly  he  must 
have  applied  to  himself  the  lines  of  the  “Prisoner  of 
Chillon,” — 

“ My  limbs  are  bow’d,  though  not  with  toil, 

But  rusted  by  a vile  repose,” — 

for,  be  it  remembered,  whilst  he  could  write,  whilst 
unthreatened  by  his  physician,  he  had  few  regrets  ; but 
how  sadly  must  he  have  felt  whilst  writing  the  follow- 
ing letter  to  Michael  : — 


“ London,  February  3 d,  1827. 

“My  dear  Michael, — For  the  last  week  I have  been 
projecting  a visit  to  the  southern  coast  with  Ellen, 
for  both  our  sakes,  and  under  advice.  In  fact,  we  both 
require  good  air,  and  everything  else  calculated  to  give 
a new  stock  of  health.  Since  my  last,  I have  suffered 
much  in  a relapse,  and,  though  again  relieved  from  abso- 
lute pain,  remain  exhausted  and  feeble.” 

This  projected  visit  was  not  made,  for,  with  some  few 
days  of  revived  health,  came  new  projects,  and  now,  as 


204 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


in  latter  years,  Banim  ever  longed  to  escape  the  thought 
that  his  strength  was  broken. 

In  these  times  of  which  we  write,  John  Sterling  was 
rising  into  that  reputation  so  short-lived  yet  so  bril- 
liant, and  of  which  Thomas  Carlyle  and  the  late  Arch- 
deacon Hare  have  given  us  such  interesting  memorials: 
young,  witty,  earnest,  and  good-natured,  Banim  and 
Sterling  were  formed  to  love  each  other ; and  it  is 
worthy  of  notice,  that  amongst  all  the  portraits  made  of 
Sterling  by  his  artist-friends,  a little  sketch  by  Banim 
is  considered  the  most  spirited  and  truthful.  The  re- 
gard of  each  for  each  was  warm  and  open,  and  in  the 
following  letter  to  Michael  we  gather  some  knowledge 
of  the  sympathies  by  which  they  were  mutually  bound. 
One  can  fancy  John  Sterling  joining  in  a debate  at  the 
famous  Union  on  “ the  Catholic  Question,”  and  laugh- 
ing more  loudly  than  Peter  Plymley  at  the  arguments 
of  the  anti-emancipationists  : — 


“ London,  March  1st , 1827. 

“ My  dear  Michael,  — Soon  after  my  last  to  you  I 
got  so  well  that,  instead  of  running  down  to  Hastings 
as  I had  intended,  I accompanied,  on  a visit  to  Cam- 
bridge, a young  friend  of  mine,  Mr.  John  Sterling,  a 
talented  member  of  the  University.  I was  present  at 
a debate  on  the  Catholic  Question  at  their  Union.  I 
give  this  piece  of  intelligence,  apprehensive  that  you 
may  be  terrified  at  my  silence.  My  excursion  has 
agreed  with  me  ; I am  now  well,  and  so  is  Ellen. 

“ The  attention  shown  me  at  the  Alma  Mater  of 
Ungland,  and  the  great  interest  they  take  in  Ireland, 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


205 


were  very  gratifying,  and,  joined  to  the,  pure  air  and 
generous  excitement,  have  made  me  a new  man  in  point 
of  spirit  and  nerve. 

“ Write  instanter  to 

“ Abel  O’Haka.” 

Poor  Abel  O’Hara ! Just  six  weeks  after  the  writing 
of  this  buoyant-toned  letter,  bitter,  bitter  sorrows  are 
upon  his  noble  heart.  The  terrible  tortures  of  his 
limbs  have  returned  ; painful  remedies  have  been  pre- 
scribed and  endured,  but  with  little  effect.  His  wife 
is  sick  ; his  furniture  has  been  taken  in  execution  for 
debts  incurred  during  his  former  and  present  illness  ; 
his  pen  is  idle  ; his  mother  is  ill  ; and  yet  he  can, 
amidst  all  his  many  cares,  show  gleamings  of  the  ever- 
living  love  of  literature — can  urge  Michael  to  renewed 
exertion,  and — most  beautiful  trait  of  all — he  rejoices 
that  in  the  new  edition  of  “ The  Nowlans,”  the  too 
highly  colored  scenes  of  ardent  passion  are  altered  and 
amended.  The  letter  is  as  follows : — 

“ London,  April  13th,  1827. 

“ My  dear  Michael, — After  all  my  resolutions,  I have 
not  been  able  to  leave  London  hitherto,  and  I know  you 
will  be  sorry  to  hear  the  cause.  Continued  attacks  of 
my  old  complaint  in  the  limbs,  producing  almost  the 
command  of  my  medical  advisers  not  to  go  to  the 
country  till  I had  fully  tried  the  effects  of  galvanic 
operations  : these  are  now  ended,  with,  I hope,  some 
good  result,  and  our  seats  taken  to  Hastings  for  to- 
morrow morning. 

“ I believe  I before  told  you  that  I have  not  been 


206 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


allowed  to  exert  myself  since  the  commencement  of 
this  attack.  Now  I have  to  inform  you  (God  be 
praised)  that  to  the  present  day  I have  remained  al- 
most idle  ; so  that  everything  connected  with  our  future 
prospects  depends  on  you  — that  is,  if  you  have  not  a 
new  series  of  tales,  ready  to  be  transcribed  by  me 
against  the  1st  of  July,  we  must  be  out  of  the  market. 

“ After  the  loss  of  my  furniture  in  Sloane  Street,  my 
idleness  ever  since,  and  the  joint  expenses  of  Ellen’s 
medical  men  and  mine,  and  apothecaries,  which  is  im- 
mense, to  say  nothing  of  living  meantime,  my  banker’s 
account  must  be  materially  influenced.  In  fact,  if  I 
had  a bit  of  despondency  in  me,  this  heavy  visitation 
of  sickness,  with  its  consequences,  would  make  me  hang 
my  head.  But  be  assured,  I still  keep  a stout  heart, 
and  a hope,  not  without  reason,  in  the  future. 

“In  the  second  edition  of  the  second  series  of  our 
tales,  just  out,  I have  corrected  some  of  the  more  glar- 
ing improprieties  of  the  first.  Again,  as  to  your  contem- 
plated three  volumes,  you  have  been  turning  the  matter 
long  enough  in  your  mind  to  be  able  to  go  to  work, 
and  you  must  not  conclude  that  everything  which  dis- 
pleases you  as  bad,  or  vice  versa,  is  so.  No  man  ever 
fully  completed  his  own  original  thought. 

“ Need  I say  how  grieved  I was  to  hear  of  my 
mother’s  attack.  This  weather  will  make  her  better  ; 
at  all  events,  if  I did  not  sympathize  with  her  in  spirit, 
I did  in  body  ; that  is  not  much  comfort  to  either  of 
us.” 

To  an  appeal  so  touching,  so  pathetic  as  this,  Michael 
Banim  could  not  be  insensible.  “ From  time  to  time,” 
he  writes  to  us,  “ during  the  year  1826,  and  in  the  first 
months  of  1827,  I directed  all  my  leisure  hours  to  the 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


207 


composition  of  a three-volume  novel,  and  the  result  of 
my  labors  was  the  Third  Series  of  £ Tales  by  the  O’Hara 
Family  5 — the  novel  known  as  c The  Croppy.5  This,  like 
my  former  tale,  passed  through  my  brother’s  hands 
previous  to  publication.”  It  was  almost  completed  when 
the  last  melancholy  letter  reached  Michael ; the  manu- 
scipt  was  forthwith  dispatched  to  London,  and  from 
Eastbourne,  whether,  after  the  date  of  his  last  letter,  he 
had  removed,  John  addressed  the  following  letter  to 
his  brother  : — 


“ 45  Sea  Houses,  Eastbourne,  June  20th.  1827. 

“ My  dear  Michael, — When  last  I wrote,  I told  you 
I proposed  being  in  town  the  1st  of  June,  and  asked 
you  to  send  your  manuscripts  to  Colburn.  Accordingly, 
on  the  1st  of  June,  I was  in  town,  and  I got  the  manu- 
scripts the  2d  ; such,  it  is  worthy  of  remark,  are  the 
blessings  of  punctuality — such  the  agreeable  effect  of 
two  people  being  able  to  rely  on  each  other  in  their 
arrangements. 

“Days,  after  my  return  to  Eastbourne,  were  exclu- 
sively devoted  to  a careful  perusal,  or  rather  careful 
perusals  of  your  tale.  Your  anticipations  of  failure, 
though  they  did  not  convince,  put  me  on  my  guard 
against  deciding  too  partially,  and  precisely  as  I felt, 
X now  candidly  assure  you,  that  I think  you  need  not 
apprehend  failure  in  this  your  trial.” 

The  opinion  here  expressed  of  “ The  Croppy  ” was 
fully  supported  by  the  opinion  of  the  public : it  was, 
and  most  justly,  considered  fully  equal  in  merit  to  any 
of  the  fictions  written  by  “ The  O’Hara  Family.” 


208 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


Rendered  somewhat  easy  in  mind  by  the  assurance 
that  the  reputation  of  “ The  O’Hara  Family  ” was 
secured  for  the  present,  Banim’s  satisfaction  was  in- 
creased at  the  same  period  by  the  birth  of  a daughter. 
He  thus  announced  the  event  to  his  mother  : — 

‘‘Eastbourne,  Sussex,  July  22cZ,  1827. 

“ My  dearest  Mother, — I have  to  inform  you  that 
on  Friday  night  last  you  became  grandmother  to  a big 
daughter — who  gives  such  proof  of  lungs  as  to  disturb 
the  whole  village.  Amongst  the  multitude  of  women 
now  congregated  about  me  I go  for  very  little  indeed — 
in  fact  I seem  of  no  importance  whatever  in  their  eyes.” 

Banim  had  been  long  anxious  that  Michael  should 
visit  him,  and  now  he  urged  the  matter  specially,  and 
claimed  the  visit  as  one  due  to  him  in  honor  of  his 
child,  and  as  a welcome  to  her.  Referring  to  this 
period,  Michael  writes  to  us  thus  : — 

“In  fulfilment  of  a year-old  promise,  I joined  the 
father  and  mother  of  the  ‘ big  daughter,’  in  the  August 
of  1827,  at  the  sea-side  village  of  Eastbourne,  in  Sussex. 
When  I visited  him  in  1825,  I had  observed  a sad 
change  in  his  appearance  : he  now  looked  as  if  twenty 
years  had  elapsed  since  we  met.  He  stooped  : his 
face  (all  except  the  eye)  was  that  of  an  elderly  man, 
and  even  with  the  aid  of  a stick,  he  could  not  walk 
one  hundred  yards  at  a stretch.  Notwithstanding,  I 
found  him  still  hearty  and  joyous,  and  hoping  against 
all  probability  for  recovery.  Of  course  I did  not  act 
so  unfeelingly  as  to  undeceive  him  by  giving  my  own 
conviction.  He  removed  from  Eastbourne  to  Seven 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


209 


Oaks,  in  Kent,  when  the  winter  approached  and  the 
sea  breeze  began  too  frequently  to  roar  and  lash  the 
waters ; his  health  seemed  to  improve  with  the  change 
of  weather. 

“ I remained  as  his  guest  from  August  to  November, 
and  during  this  time  I put  the  last  volume  of  ‘ The 
Croppy  5 out  of  my  hands,  reading  for  him  every  even- 
ing the  result  of  the  day’s  work,  and  adopting  his 
suggestions  as  I went  on. 

“ I read  in  MS.  at  the  same  time  the  rough  copy  of 
a tale  which  he  had  put  together  between  whiles,  and 
in  the  lapses  between  his  attacks  of  pain.  This  was 
done  without  the  knowledge  of  the  doctors.  He  could 
not  submit  to  the  sentence  of  positive  idleness.  The 
tale  I allude  to  was  published  the  year  following,  under 
the  title  of  £The  Anglo-Irish.’  It  was  of  a different 
character  from  the  ‘ O’Hara  Tales,’  and  was  not  an- 
nounced as  proceeding  from  the  same  authors. 

<eI  cannot  say  how  the  'Anglo-Irish  ’ was  received — - 
I believe  indifferently.  The  full  power  of  the  writer’s 
mind  was  not  brought  to  bear  upon  it ; unhappily,  there 
was  a physical  inability  to  strain  the  brain  to  its  ten- 
sion at  the  time  it  was  written.” 

The  reader  will  remember  that  a coldness,  arising 
from  misconception,  had  estranged  Gerald  Griffin  and 
Banim,  in  the  year  1826,  and  that  all  correspondence 
between  them  had  ceased.  However,  in  October,  1827, 
the  following  letters  were  written,  and  which  are  here 
quoted  from  Gerald  Griffin’s  Life  by  his  brother. 

“24  Northumberland  Street.  Regent’s  Park. 

“ October  1 9th.  1827. 

“My  dear  Sir, — I have  been  endeavoring  to  find  you  in  vain,  since 
my  return  to  London.  I inquired  at  Mount  Street,  at  Mr.  Colburn’s, 


210 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


and  from  Mr.  Arnold,  but  I could  only  learn  that  you  were  then  at 
Hastings.  In  case  I should  not  be  able  to  see  you  before  I leave 
London,  I wish  to  communicate  in  writing  what  could  be  done  with 
more  satisfaction  in  person.' 

“Had  I had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  before  I left  England,  this 
letter  might  be  unnecessary,  and  I am  very  sorry  now  that  I did  not. 
I wish  to  explain  to  you  more  fully  the  cause  of  the  long  silence 
which  we  both  seemed  to  expect  should  be  first  broken  by  the  other, 
and  the  fault  of  which,  I am  ready  to  acknowledge,  rested  with  my- 
self. The  fact  was,  I felt  hurt  by  your  letter,  in  which  you  charged 
me  with  wanting  a sense  of  the  advantage  I had  derived  from  your 
kindness  (which  charge,  recollecting  the  temper  of  my  previous 
letter,  I fear  you  were  not  without  grounds  for),  and  acting  on  that 
feeling,  I wrote  again  what  I at  the  time  thought  ought  to  be  a satis- 
factory answer.  I expected  a few  words  to  say  whether  it  had  been 
so  or  not,  but  they  never  came,  and  thence  that  absence  which  you 
say  astonished  you.  It  was  an  error,  I acknowledge,  but  yet  not 
wholly  without  excuse.  I never  entered  your  house  without  reluc- 
tance, even  when  you  were  most  warm  and  kind ; excuse  me  if  I 
could  not  do  so  when  you  seemed  to  wear  an  altered  face.  That,  and 
that  alone,  was  the  cause  of  my  absence. 

“ For  the  rest,  I have  only  to  say,  I owe  you  much,  and  I thank 
you.  If  it  has  seemed  otherwise  to  you,  believe  my  present  assur- 
ance. It  must  have  seemed  otherwise,  or  you  would  not  have  left  my 
letter  unanswered.  Be  a good  Christian — forget  and  forgive. 

“ I hope  to  leave  a parcel  directed  for  you  at  Mr.  Colburn’s,  of 
which  I request  your  acceptance,  begging  at  the  same  time  that  you 
will  keep  my  secret,  as  it  is  not  my  concern  alone.  I take  also  this 
opportunity  of  assuring  you  of  the  sincere  delight  with  which  I heard 
of  an  event  in  your  family  which  must  have  been  a source  of  much 
happiness  to  you. 

“ I have  another  favor  to  beg  of  you,  which  I am  sure  you  will  not 
hesitate  to  grant  me.  It  is,  that  you  will  expunge  from  the  play 
which  you  presented  for  me,  the  passage  in  the  scene  between  the 
Irishman  and  the  hero,  comprising  the  few  sentences  just  before  ‘she 
talks  philosophy.’  You  may  laugh  at  my  introducing  this  matter, 
but  I am  unwilling  to  trouble  Mr.  Arnold  myself,  and  the  passage 
may  be  objectionable.  Once  more  wishing  you  all  the  health,  happi- 
ness, and  peace  which  you  can  desire  or  deserve,  I am,  with  sincere 
esteem  and  gratitude,  yours,  “ Gerald  Griffin. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


211 


“My  words  bave  so  often  failed  to  convey  what  I intended,  that  I 
am  not  without  apprehension  lest  by  any  possibility  I should  again 
be  misconceived.  I wish,  therefore,  to  say  once  more  distinctly — 
and  to  entreat  you  to  understand  and  believe  it  —that  the  only  feel- 
ing at  present  on  my  mind,  is  that  of  sincere  regret  for  what  has 
passed,  and  anxiety  that  you  should  be  satisfied  of  it.  Either  in 
vanity  or  in  folly,  or  in  whatever  you  please,  I thought  I filled  too 
humble  a part  in  the  whole  transaction,  and  this  made  me  fretted  with 
myself,  and  forward  to  anticipate  a slight,  where  I am  certain,  on 
proper  reflection,  none  was  intended.  It  was  not  what  you  deserved, 
but  it  was  my  mistake  ; your  not  answering  my  letter  confirmed  me 
in  this  bad  feeling,  which,  as  I have  learned  to  correct,  I hope  you 
will  no  more  remember.  G.  G.” 

To  this  letter  Mr.  Banim  at  last  sent  the  following  reply,  which  led 
to  the  subjoined  correspondence,  ending  in  a perfect  renewal  of  their 
former  intimacy  and  good  understanding. 

“ Bath  Hotel,  Piccadilly,  November , 1827. 

“ My  dear  Sir, — lTou  mistake  in  thinking  that  I have  ever  had  the 
most  remote  notion  of  a misunderstanding  with  you.  The  last  letter 
we  interchanged  on  the  subject  of  your  drama,  a year  and  a half  ago, 
seemed  to  me  quite  satisfactory.  When  you  were  leavirg  town,  about 
six  months  after,  your  note  suggesting  that  some  peculiarity  (or  a 
word  to  that  effect,  or  perhaps  stronger)  of  your  own  mind  must 
have  caused  your  previous  doubts,  I recognized  as  a most  ample, 
though  unnecessary  explanation.  I became  assured  you  were  con- 
tent, as  I was,  with  our  renewed  good  understanding,  and  sincerely  in 
this  feeling,  I desired,  in  a letter  I wrote  to  Limerick,  to  your  cousin 
last  April,  to  be  kindly  remembered  to  you.  I do  not  know  how  I 
shall  make  further  answer  to  your  letter  of  the  19th  October,  received 
by  me  only  two  days  since.  One  sentence  alone — viz.,  ‘ I never 
entered  your  house  without  reluctance,  even  when  you  were  most 
warm  and  kind’ — sounds  somewhat  strangely  to  my  ear,  because, 
during  our  years  of  close  intimacy,  when  your  visits  were  always 
welcome  to  me,  I had  never  supposed  such  to  be  the  case.  I have 
written  to  Mr.  Arnold  to  the  effect  you  wished. 

“ The  parcel  you  do  me  the  favor  to  procure  me  has  not  appeared 
at  Mr.  Colburn’s. 

“ I am,  my  dear  Sir,  yours  very  truly, 

“John  Banim.” 


212 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


No  date. 

“Mr  dear  Sir, — When  I received  your  last  letter  (late  on  Novem- 
ber 6th),  I hurried  off  to  the  Bath  Hotel,  in  the  hope  of  being  able  to 
see  you,  but  was  much  disappointed  at  finding  you  had  left  it  that 
morning.  I am  pleased  to  learn  my  mistake,  but  I was  led  into  it  by 
your  letter  of  last  January,  and,  allow  me  to  say,  your  long  silence 
after  my  former  note  on  leaving  London.  Your  remembrance  I 
never  received. 

“You  will  oblige  me  by  accepting  these  volumes,  which,  though 
faulty  enough,  may  yet  answer  the  purpose  for  which  I send  them. 
I leave  London  to-morrow  morning,  and  regret  much  that  all  my 
efforts  should  have  failed  in  endeavoring  to  see  you,  the  more  espe- 
cially as  I do  not  purpose  returning  for  some  considerable  time. 

“ The  feeling  which  renders  one  reluctant  in  trespassing  on  the 
kindness  of  a good  friend.  I can  scarcely  think  so  new  or  strange  as 
you  seem  to  imagine.  I should  be  very  sorry  it  was  so  ; but  I ought 
to  remember  a conversation  on  this  subject  which  showed  me  that 
your  opinions  on  this  matter  were  different  from  those  of, 

“ My  dear  Sir,  yours  sincerely, 

“ Gerald  Griffin.” 

“ For  1 reluctance’  read  ‘ diffidence,’  and  perhaps  we  may  agree.” 

“ Seven  Oaks,  Kent,  April  17 th,  1828. 

“My  dear  Sir, — Not  till  the  other  day,  when  I ran  up  to  town, 
did  I receive,  at  Mr.  Colburn’s,  the  k Tales  of  the  Munster  Festivals,’ 
with  the  accompanying  note.  How  long  they  had  previously  lain 
there  I cannot  tell,  nor  has  a reference  to  your  note  enabled  me  to 
decide,  as  it  is  without  date ; but  I feel  very  uneasy  under  the  ap- 
prehension that  you  may  have  sent  them  about  the  time  of  publication, 
because  if  you  reckoned  on  their  speedy  transmission  to  me,  your  not 
hearing  from  me  in  the  meantime,  must  have  seemed  to  place  me 
before  your  eyes  in  a light  very  different  indeed  from  that  in  which 
I sincerely  wish,  as  I ever  have  done,  to  be  regarded  by  you. 

u My  best  thanks  for  the  volumes.  I have  read  them  with  the 
highest  gratification,  and  warmly  congratulate  you  on  the  talents 
they  display,  as  well  as  the  success  they  have  met  with.  That  you 
thus  at  last  triumph  in  a great  degree,  as  I hope,  over  the  neglects 
and  annoyances  of  your  first  residence  in  London,  is  to  me  a matter 
of  some  triumph  also,  to  say  nothing  of  the  pleasure  it  affords  me, 
because,  in  common  with  all  who  were  known  to  you,  I claim  the 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


213 


foresight  of  having  long  destined  you  to  no  common  fortune  in  the 
battle  for  literary  fame.  Accept  my  very  best  wishes  for  your  con- 
tinued and  augmented  success. 

“ I am  very  sorry  you  did  not  see  me  at  the  Bath  Hotel  last  au- 
tumn, or  that  I did  not  soon  after  get  something  like  the  note  that 
accompanied  your  Tales.  The  simple  explanation  of  one  simple  word 
given  in  the  postscript  of  that  note,  would  have  saved  me  ever  since 
the  exceedingly  painful  feeling  of  thinking  you  unkind ; but  I now 
heartily  rejoice  at  being  undeceived,  and  the  hand  that  you  hold  out 
I take,  ay,  and  shake,  exploded  as  is  the  custom,  not  only  with  an 
unalloyed  feeling  of,  believe  me,  warm  esteem  and  friendship,  but 
with  a lightened  bosom,  and  a mind  more  at  rest,  than  the  idea  of  our 
estrangement  would  allow  me  to  experience. 

“I  hope  you  will  drop  me  a line  very  soon.  I shall  be  very 
uneasy  till  I know  you  have  got  this.  Accept  my  most  grateful 
thanks  for  the  handsome  terms  in  which  my  Tales  are  mentioned  in 
certain  printed  pages.  Mrs.  Banim  joins  me  in  kindest  remembrances 
and  good  wishes,  while  I remain, 

“ My  dear  Sir, 

“ Yours,  truly  and  affectionately, 

“ John  Banim.”* 

As  we  shall  presently  find,  this  revived  friendship 
was  a source  of  deep  satisfaction ; and  the  following 
letter  increased  this  pleasure  : how  much  it  increased 
it,  the  reader  can  judge  who  has  marked  the  deep  de- 
votional spirit  so  frequently  apparent  in  Banim’s  letters. 
Upon  his  first  acquaintance  with  Griffin  he  had  found 
him  embittered  by  sorrow  and  neglect,  and  almost  hope- 
less ; he  had  begun  to  doubt  those  divine  truths  of 
which  he  had  seldom  thought,  and,  longing  to  escape 
form  life  and  sorrow,  tried  to  fancy  himself 

“ A vapor  eddying  in  the  whirl  of  chance, 

And  soon  to  vanish  everlastingly.” 

* See  Life  of  Gerald  Griffin,  Esq.  By  his  Brother.  P.  231. 


214 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


He  was  never  a skeptic  in  the  full  meaning  of  the 
term,  but  he  exemplified  a grave  truth  of  Charles 
Lamb’s — “Few  men  think,  until  forty,  that  they  are 
mortal and  this  was  the  secret  of  Gerald’s  errors,  from 
which  the  following  letter,  for  which  wTe  are  again  in- 
debted to  Gerald  Griffin’s  Life,  declares  his  release  : — 

“ Pallas  Kenry,  Ireland,  April  22 d,  1828. 

“My  dear  Sir, — I had  the- happiness  to  receive  late  last  night 
your  most  acceptable  and  friendly  letter,  for  which  I return  you  my 
warmest  thanks.  It  ”was  a pleasure  indeed  which  I had  almost  de- 
spaired of  enjoying,  but  it  was  not  on  that  account  the  less  delightful. 
It  made  amends,  and  ample  amends,  to  me  for  a great  deal  of  bitter 
reflection — such  as  I shall  be  careful  never  to  give  occasion  for  while 
I live — and  it  afforded  me  likewise  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  I 
had  not  overrated  the  generosity  of  your  character.  Whatever  faults 
had  been  committed,  whatever  misconceptions  had  arisen  I was  con- 
fident that  when  I had  endeavored  to  explain  the  one,  and  freely 
acknowledge  the  other,  you  would  not  continue  to  withhold  from  me 
that  friendship  which  was  one  of  the  most  valued  consolations  of  my 
life,  and  the  loss  of  which  I could  never  have  considered  in  any  other 
light  than  as  a deep  misfortune. 

“ The  books  I sent  to  Mr.  Colburn’s,  when  I was  leaving  England, 
a few  days  after  their  publication  ; knowing,  however,  that  you  were 
not  then  residing  in  London,  I could  not  be  sure  that  you  had  re- 
ceived them  before  I got  your  letter.  I do  not  know  whether  I men- 
tioned to  you  in  the  note  that  accompanied  the  volumes,  that  I had, 
immediately  on  receiving  your  letter  (about  ten  at  night),  run  down 
to  Piccadilly  in  the  hope  of  seeing  you,  but  to  my  great  disappoint- 
ment, I found  that  you  had  that  day  left  the  hotel.  I regretted  the 
circumstance  extremely,  as  I was  assured  that  a personal  interview 
would  have  done  more  to  accomplish  a clear  understanding  between 
us  than  any  written  explanation. 

“ And  now,  my  friend,  that  we  do  fully  understand  one  another — 
now  that  you  do  so  kindly  and  unreservedly  admit  me  into  your 
friendship — a happiness  of  which  I am  prouder  then  I can  easily  ex- 
press— will  you  permit  me  to  offer  one  suggestion  that  may  prevent 
a recurrence  of  those  unhappy  mistakes  by  which  I have  suffered  so 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


215 


keenly.  I am  often,  I see,  unfortunate  in  the  choice  of  my  expres- 
sions. I seem  frequently  to  mean  that  which  is  farthest  from  my 
intention,  and  to  convey  subject  for  offence,  in  terms  that  are  only 
designed  to  express  esteem  and  attachment.  Let  us  not,  therefore, 
in  a world  where  we  can  hardly  afford  to  throw  away  any  rational 
enjoyment,  suffer  the  sentiment  which  we  may  entertain  for  one  an- 
other to  be  disturbed  by  any  misconceptions  to  which  a letter  may 
give  occasion.  If  a sentence  should  occur  to  furnish  a subject  for 
doubt,  let' us  meet  and  speak  clearly  ; and  then,  if  either  should  be 
found  unworthy  of  the  other’s  confidence,  let  him  be  punished  by 
losing  it. 

“ I have  seen,  during  the  lo„st  few  weeks,  an  announcement  of  a 
new  work,  from  the  author  of  the  O’Hara  Tales,  ‘ The  Croppy,’  the 
action  of  which  is  fixed  at  a period  of  strong  interest — a period  wor- 
thy of  being  celebrated  by  a writer  who  is  not  afraid  to  encounter  a 
stern  and  tumultuous  subject.  I am  not  familiar  with  the  history  of 
those  times,  but  I remember  hearing*  (indeed  it  must  be  known  to  you) 
of  the  burning  of  a barn — in  Wexford,  I think — which  would  have 
supplied  the  subject  of  a forcible  episode.  But  you  felt  no  want  of 
materials  for  such  a work,  neither  did  this  circumstance,  now  I re- 
member, reflect  much  honor  on  the  insurgents. 

“I  have  to  return  you  my  sincere  thanks  for  the  kind  manner  in 
which  you  speak  of  my  hasty  volumes.  I have  been  long  since  made 
aware  of  their  numerous  faults,  and  am  endeavoring,  as  all  well- 
disposed  people  ought,  to  profit  by  experience.  But  though  I am 
sensible  that  I should  have  acted  more  wisely  by  delaying  their  pub- 
lication and  devoting  more  time  to  their  improvement,  yet  I do  not 
regret  having  put  them  forward,  even  if  they  should  procure  me  no 
other  advantage  than  that  of  recovering  an  old  and  valued  friend. 
I remember  your  speaking  to  me  on  one  occasion  of  a work  which 
is  greatly  wanted  at  the  present  moment — a History  of  Ireland.  I 
should  be  sorry  to  think  that  you  had  wholly  relinquished  the  idea. 
It  is  a subject,  however,  which  affords  a fairer  field  for  the  pursuit  of 
fume  than  that  of  fortune,  and  on  that  account  is  little  likely  to  be 
popular  with  writers  who  are  able  to  accomplish  both.  I have  seen 
one  lately  announced — from  the  pen  of  some  Colonel,  I believe. 

u Were  we  now  to  meet,  you  would,  I dare  say,  find  a considerable 
alteration  in  many  of  my  opinions.  One  I do  not  think  it  right  to 
withhold  from  you.  You  may  remember  some  conversations  we  had 
at  a time  when  you  lent  me  a little  edition  of  ; Paley’s  Evidences.’ 


216 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


The  sentiments  which  you  then  expressed  surprised  me  a little,  when 
I remembered  some  former  remarks  of  yours  with  which  they  con- 
trasted very  strongly.  This  circumstance,  joined  with  others,  led  me 
to  a course  of  study  and  reflection,  which,  with  (I  hope)  the  Divine 
assistance,  ended  in  the  complete  re-establishment  of  my  early  con- 
victions. The  works  which  I read  were  (after  Paley’s)  Milner’s  ‘ End 
of  Controversy,’  and  Massillon’s  sermons — both  very  able  works.  I 
mention  my  change  of  opinion  on  this  great  subject,  because  it  is  a 
slight  part  of  the  great  reparation  that  is  due  from  me.  and  I men- 
tion the  occasion  of  that  change  to  show  how  much  good  or  how 
much  evil  a person  may  do  by  the  expression  of  his  opinions  in  the 
presence  of  others,  and  how  very  careful  he  ought  to  be  in  assuring 
himself  that  his  opinions  are  correct,  before  he  ventures  to  communi- 
cate them  to  those  with  whom  his  talents  and  his  reputation  may 
give  him  an  influence.  An  author,  my  dear  friend,  has  a fearful  card 
to  play  in  domestic  society  as  well  as  before  the  public.  But  why 
should  I take  the  liberty  of  pursuing  such  a theme  as  this  so  far? 
Forgive  me  for  it  this  single  time,  as  I waS  tempted  only  by  a deep 
anxiety  for  your  happiness.  I thought,  too,  that  the  circumstance 
above  mentioned  would  give  you  a pleasure. 

“If  your  brother  should  not  be  at  present  in  England  with  you, 
will  you  do  me  the  kindness  to  present  him  my  best  remembrances 
when  next  you  write.  One  of  those  ‘ fair  occasions  gone  for  ever  by,’ 
— yet  no,  not  for  ever,  I hope — which  I regret  to  have  lost  during  my 
residence  in  London,  is  the  opportunity  I had  of  becoming  better 
acquainted  with  him.  I had  something  more  to  say,  but  my  paper 
fails  me.  Is  our  correspondence  to  terminate  here?  I anticipate  a 
speedy  and  generous  4 No,’ — for  though  your  time  be  precious,  yet 
you  would  not  hesitate  to  devote  a few  moments  to  one  secluded,  as 
I am  here,  if  you  knew  the  happiness  that  it  would  afford  me.  Pre- 
sent my  best  remembrances  to  Mrs.  Banim,  whose  health,  I hope  most 
sincerely,  is  improved,  and  with  the  warmest  esteem  and  affection, 
believe  me  to  be,  “ My  dear  Sir,  yours  faithfully, 

“ Gerald  Griffin.” 

To  this  letter  Banim  thus  replied : — 

“Seven  Oaks,  May  27th,  1828. 

“My  dear  Griffin, — You  see  I lead  the  way.  Be  assured  that 
your  last,  of  April  22d,  gives  me  heartfelt  pleasure.  My  old  harp  of 
a heart  has  a string  restored  to  it.  I accept  your  invitation  not  to 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


217 


allow  anything  that  may  occur  in  letters  between  us  to  start  a doubt 
in  future  of  your  friendship  or  character.  Let  me  add  my  own  cove- 
nant. When  we  meet,  treat  me  more  bluntly,  off-handedly,  and  talk- 
atively  than  you  have  done.  I now  am  sure  that  an  unlucky  diffi- 
dence hitherto  regulated  (or  rather  disarranged)  your  social  manner. 
However,  I shall  be  happier  with  you,  if,  amongst  your  other  recent' 
changes,  you  have  acquired  a knack  of  treating  a friend  differently, 
and  I close  this  topic  by  protesting  against  your  supposing  that  I 
here  mean  an  iota  which  does  not  broadly  meet  your  eyes. 

“Your  religious  revolutions  in  opinion  I shall  not  merely  con- 
gratulate you  upon  ; I do  more  by  sympathizing  with  them  ; yes,  I 
fear,  when  we  first  met,  and  for  some  time  after,  that  my  own  re- 
ligious creed  was  vague  and  profane,  and  I sincerely  ask  your  pardon 
for  any  word  of  mine  which  may  have  tended  to  set  you  astray.  But 
it  is  so  remarkable  that  Paley  should  have  been  the  first  to  call  us 
back  to  the  right  path.  And  perhaps  more  remarkable  still,  that, 
although  mixing  up  abuse  of  Popery  with  proofs  of  Christianity,  he 
should  have  helped  to  make  us  Catholics,  as  well  as  believers  in 
revelation. 

“I  envy  you  your  life  in  poor  Ireland.  My  health  has  been  bad 
since  I saw  you.  I nearly  lost  the  use  of  my  limbs,  but  can  now  limp 
about  on  a stick. 

“ I write  you  a short  and  hasty  letter.  Till  this  day,  since  I had 
the  great  pleasure  of  receiving  your  last,  I have  been  very  busy,  and 
ill  enough  into  the  bargain,  and  this  morning  I start  with  Mrs.  Banim 
to  make  a long-promised  visit  to  the  Rev.  James  Dunn  (a  man  I wish 
you  knew,  the  same  whom  Sheil  some  time  ago  speeched  praises  of) 
and  his  lady  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  but  will  not  go  till  I answer  your 
letter,  and  this  accounts,  I hope,  for  the  kind  of  one  it  is.  Pray  write 
soon,  and  believe  me  your  affectionate  Friend, 

“John  Banim.”* 

Not  alone  to  Griffin  did  Banim  thus  express  his  satis- 
faction. Addressing  Michael  a few  days  after  the  date 
of  the  last  to  his  friend,  he  writes  : 

“Another  thing  puts  me  into  the  best  of  humor — I 
have  recovered  a friend.  You  by  this  time  know  my 

* “ life  of  Gerald  Griffin,  Esq.  By  his  Brother.”  P.  238,  &c. 

10 


218  BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 

doctrine — that  except  the  loss  of  health,  or  the  loss  of 
a friend,  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  worth  fretting 
for.  Poor  Gerald  Griffin  ! In  answer  to  ours  from  the 
Bath  Hotel  before  we  left  London,  he  ran  down  there. 
We  were  gone.  Then  he  sent  his  books  with  a letter. 
I got  both  only  lately.  His  note  was  all  I could  wish. 
I immediately  answered  him  as  I ought,  recollecting 
all  his  former  sufferings  and  inexperience.  This  morn- 
ing I have  received  from  him  a manly,  dignified  letter. 
He  tells  me,  among  other  things,  that  some  talk  of 
mine  with  him  has  made  him,  or  rather  re-established 
him,  in  his  faith.  I found  him  a skeptic.  You  may  be 
sure  this  does  my  poor  head  good.” 

By  the  address  of  the  letter  last  written  to  Gerald 
Griffin,  it  appears  that  Banim  had  changed  his  resi- 
dence from  Eastbourne  to  Seven  Oaks,  and  he  thus 
wrote  to  Michael,  describing  his  condition.  The  refer- 
ence here  to  his  wife  and  child  is  characteristic  ; as  the 
reader  will  hereafter  perceive  “ sunshine,  and  a garden 
not  overlooked,”  were  necessary  to  his  perfect  enjoy- 
ment of  the  country.  We  have  no  more  beautiful  and 
manly  letter  in  all  these  of  Banim’s  now  before  us  than 
the  following — which  seems  imbued  by  that  spirit  ex- 
pressed by  Tennyson — 

“ All  the  land  in  flowery  squares, 

Beneath  a broad  and  equal-blowing  wind, 

Smelt  of  the  coming  summer,  as  one  large  cloud 
Drew  downward  ; but  all  else  of  heaven  was  pure 
Up  to  the  sun,  and  May  from  verge  to  verge, 

And  May  with  me  from  head  to  heel.” 


The  letter  is  as  follows  : — 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


219 


" Seven  Oaks,  June  13 th,  1828. 

“My  dear  Michael, — But  come — my  heart  is  lighter 
certainly  : when  I wrote  last,  I was  very  ill,  shattered 
to  pieces,  and  the  clouds  lying  down  on  the  roads  and 
fields  around  me.  But  I am  now  better  ; my  spirits 
capital,  my  self-dependence  (thanks  to  God  Almighty 
for  his  gracious  protection  and  help)  little  abated, 
several  goodly  patches  of  corn  in  the  land,  by  dint  of 
contributions  to  the  Annuals.  Ellen  running  about  in 
our  sunny  garden,  and  little  Mary  shouting  to  her  and 
to  the  joy-bells,  this  beautiful  summer  day.  In  fact, 
there  is  a delightful  sense  of  existence — and  of  gratitude 
to  the  Giver  of  it , and  of  the  humble — no,  the  great 
blessings,  he  vouchsafes  with  it,  in  all  our  hearts.” 

In  a former  part  of  the  Biography  we  inserted  a 
letter  written  to  Michael  Banim  by  John,  and  contain- 
ing, in  our  opinion,  the  most  admirable  rules  for  the 
construction  and  composition  of  a perfect  novel.  The 
following  letter  is,  if  possible,  more  useful  to  the  young 
novelist,  and,  if  read  in  connection  with  that  before 
inserted,  will  prove  in  the  highest  degree  interesting  : 
indeed  the  outline  tale  here  sketched  is,  in  itself,  a 
highly-wrought  incident,  and,  coupled  with  the  recol- 
lections of  the  fireside  stories  told  by  his  mother  of  her 
relatives,  reminds  one  of  the  home-pictures  in  Robert 
Southey’s  Recollections  of  his  Early  Life.* 

This  letter  has  also  a peculiar  interest,  as,  from  the 
hints  and  directions  contained  in  it,  Michael  Banim 

* “ Life  and  Correspondence  of  Robert  Southey,”  edited  by  his  Son,  the  Rev. 
C.  C.  Southey.  Vol.  I.,  p.  1. 


220 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


was  induced  to  write  his  well-known  tale,  “ The  Ghost 
Hunter  and  his  Family.” 

“Seven  Oaks,  November  10th,  1828. 

“ Dear  Michael,  — No  matter  from  what  class  of  life 
you  take  your  future  materials,  seek  as  much  as  possi- 
ble for  the  good  and  amiable  in  our  national  character 
and  habits ; as  well  as  for  the  strong,  the  fierce,  and,  I 
will  say,  the  ungovernable.  How  valuable,  for  instance, 
would  be  a simple  dramatic  tale,  got  through  by  old 
Daniel  Carroll,  his  wife,  his  sons,  and  his  two  daughters, 
Here  no  necessity  exists  to  rake  your  memory  for  the 
great  object,  character.  Every  one  of  these  I have  men- 
tioned, must,  from  your  mother’s  description  of  them, 
live  for  you.  Old  Daniel  Carroll  her  father,  with  his 
grotesque  sun-dials,  his  forked  pendulums  — his  crude 
system  of  philosophy ; and  his  reading,  during  long 
evenings,  Don  Quixote  and  such  books,  although  so 
thoroughly  pious.  Then  his  wife  Betty,  you  recollect 
her  defence  when  reprehended  for  some  out-of-the-way 
expression  by  her  husband.  Questioned  by  him  where 
she  had  heard  the  malediction  uttered  by  her,  she 
paused  and  taxed  her  memory,  and  then  affirmed  she 
could  have  heard  it  nowhere,  except  it  issued  from  the 
sinful  books  he  was  in  the  habit  of  reading.  Betty’s 
character  is  richly  primitive.  Then  there  is  the  son 
Philip’s  wild  irregular  one.  The  younger  Daniel’s 
petty,  selfish  cunning.  Alley’s  retaining  her  anxiety 
to  be  thought  very  devout,  not  hiding  her  candle  under 
a bushel  meanwhile — then  the  eldest  daughter,  our  own 
dear  mother,  such  as  she  was  in  her  maidenhood.  Her 
industry,  her  thrift,  her  mildness— her  mother-wit  and 
natural  good  sense.  Her  lovers,  her  starling,  her  cana- 
ries. My  dear  Michael,  if  health  permitted,  I could 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


221 


use  these  people,  and  bring  their  real  and  unimagined 
qualities  into  play,  with  credit  to  the  Irish  character,  all 
Papist  as  it  is,  sweetly,  primitively,  and  amiably. 

“ I remember,  too,  an  old  story  of  our  mother’s,  of  a 
gaunt  stone-cutter  killing  a slight,  delicate  young  man 
in  a fight,  brought  on  by  a quarrel  in  a churchyard 
about  the  right  of  interment  in  a certain  spot ; you 
must  recollect  the  occurrence,  as  it  w^  described  to  us 
one  cold  evening  as  we  sat  close  together  round  the 
fire.  There  was  a man  once  in  affluence,  who  had 
been  a tithe  proctor,  if  I remember  rightly.  After 
having  spent  a long  life  in  acts  of  petty  tyranny,  the 
ban  fell  upon  his  hoard,  to  this  day  supposed  to  be 
inevitable.  You  and  I have  often  heard  that  ban  pro- 
nounced — ‘ A proctor’s  money  never  can  have  luck ; ’ 
so  it  fell  out  with  this  man  ; he  became  very  poor, 
there  was  no  sympathy  for  him,  and  he  committed 
suicide — an  act,  in  those  days,  of  rare  occurrence  ; he 
died,  too,  unrepentant  and  unsliriven.  No  one  can  be 
got  to  inter  the  body  ; nor  will  any  of  those  whose 
‘people’s  bones’  rest  in  consecrated  ground  permit 
the  corpse  of  the  hardened  self-murderer  to  rest  in 
contact  with  the  relics  of  their  kindred.  The  coffin  is 
laid  on  the  public  street,  none  will  tolerate  it  near  their 
dwellings,  and  it  is  cruelly  dragged  along  the  pavement 
from  place  to  place,  and  finally  brought  back  to  the 
door  of  the  house  wherein  the  act  of  suicide  had  been 
committed.  A compassionate  young  man  enlists  three 
of  his  associates — they  take  off  the  outcast  remains  and 
bear  it  to  a neighboring  graveyard.  It  is  night,  and 
by  the  light  of  a single  candle,  fixed  in  a lump  of 
churchyard  clay,  and  resting  on  a tombstone,  the  three 
young  men  are  hastily  digging  a receptacle  for  the  be- 
grimed coffin  that  lies  near  them.  A gaunt  stone-cutter 


222 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


surprises  tlie  men  at  their  stealthy  work.  His  father’s 
remains  are  buried  close  to  the  spot  where  they  are 
delving,  and  he  sternly  interdicts  further  progress.  The 
charitable  young  man  who  had  induced  the  others  to  as- 
sist him,  opposes  the  mandate  ; he  and  the  stone-cutter 
contend  fiercely  over  the  graves  ; the  stone-cutter  is  a 
strong  and  powerful  man,  the  other  is  young  and  slight ; 
he  is  struck  dow#  by  his  opponent,  and  blood  gushes 
from  his  mouth;  recovered  a little,  he  assists  to  inter  the 
suicide  elsewhere.  He  has  been  hurt  internally,  and 
when  he  reaches  home  he  is  obliged  to  keep  his  bed ; 
then  the  sequel  of  our  mother’s  tale.  Sarah,  the  proc- 
tor’s daughter,  had  been,  during  the  days  of  her  father’s 
prosperity,  carefully  brought  up,  and  educated  for  a 
rank  beyond  that  she  could  now  pretend  to  in  her 
poverty.  While  yet  lamenting  over  the  appalling  ter- 
mination of  her  parent’s  life,  she  was  compelled  to 
witness  the  cruel  indignity  practised  towards  his  corpse ; 
and  her  gratitude  was  overflowing  to  him  who  had 
charitably  borne  it  away  and  placed  it  beneath  the  clay. 
She  visited  him  in  his  illness,  and  nursed  him  to  con- 
valescence ; she  taught  him  to  love  her,  and  she  married 
him.  But  consumption  had  fastened  on  the  young  man, 
and  his  days  were  numbered.  His  young  wife  imbibed 
the  fatal  malady  from  him ; they  wasted  away  together 
day  by  day ; she  was  the  first  to  die,  and  he  followed 
her  very  quietly  to  the  same  grave.” 

Beferring  to  this  letter,  Michael  Banim  writes  to  us 
thus : — 

“From  the  first  of  the  hints  given  in  this  letter  by 
my  brother,  the  tale  of  ‘The  Ghost  Hunter  and  his 
Family’  had  origin  — the  personages  he  indicates  had 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


223 


been  more  than  once  graphically  drawn  for  us  by  our 
mother.  They  were  her  own  immediate  parents,  her 
brothers  and  sister.  They,  as  well  as  herself,  are  faith- 
fully depicted  in  the  tale  under  the  above  title.  ‘ The 
Ghost  Hunter  and  his  Family’  was  originally  written 
by  me,  framed  by  my  brother,  and  published  in  1833, 
in  ‘ The  Library  of  Romance/  edited  by  Leitch  Ritchie. 
No  use  was  made  of  the  second  sketch.  I did  not  like 
the  subject.  I left  it  in  the  suggester’s  hands,  but  he 
never  wrought  upon  it.” 

In  the  autumn  of  1828,  Banim  commenced  writing 
a new  series  of  “The  Tales  by  the  O’Hara  Family” — 
the  title  adopted  by  him  for  the  work  was  “The  De- 
nounced.” 

It  was  written  amidst  pain,  and  the  dread  of  still 
greater  suffering.  He  left  his  cottage  at  Seven  Oaks, 
and  removed  for  change  of  air  to  Blackheath  ; and 
from  his  new  residence,  he  thus,  in  1829,  wrote  sorrow- 
ingly  to  Michael : — 

“ Blackiieath,  April  3d,  1829. 

“ My  dear  Michael, — I have  been  obliged  to  remove 
hither.  Seven  Oaks  was  too  far  from  London  for  busi- 
ness, and  I longed  for  change  of  air.  For  the  last  five 
months  scarcely  three  weeks’  work  in  me,  and  in  con- 
sequence, my  tale  has  flagged.  Had  it  been  God’s  will 
to  give  me  health,  it  would  have  been  ready  before 
now.” 

The  volumes  passed,  as  usual,  through  Michael’s 
hands,  and  appeared  in  July,  1829,  and  are  not  worthy 
the  author  of  “ The  Nowlans.”  One  does  not,  however, 


224  BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 

wonder  that  the  tales  are  below  the  standard  of  Banim’s 
reputation,  when  we  recollect  that  they  were  put  to- 
gether hurriedly — while  sickness  was  a frequent  visitant, 
while  the  working  mental  power  was  available  only  at 
frequent  and  desultory  intervals,  and  while  compulsive 
inactivity,  and  the  inevitable  heavy  outlay  consequent 
on  illness,  together  with  the  constant  change  of  resi- 
dence, in  search  of  the  health  that  was  not  to  return, 
were  causing  at  the  same  time  a necessity  for  funds, 
and  an  incapacity  to  create  them. 

After  the  completion  of  the  work,  Banim’s  health 
became  more  feeble,  and  in  change  of  air  and  scene  lay 
his  only  hope  of  restoration.  On  the  20th  of  August, 
1829,  he  wrote  thus  from  Blackheath  to  Michael : — 

“My  dear  Michael, — We  shall  be  obliged  to  remove 
farther  from  you  ; I am  ordered  to  the  French  coast — 
to  a milder  climate,  and  where  constant  baths  can  be 
had  at  a cheap  rate — these  I am  advised  to  use  freely. 
I must  shift  my  place  when  there  is  a necessity.  Any- 
where in  pursuit  of  health,  for  without  that  precious 
blessing — I need  not  conclude  the  sentence.” 

This  resolution  of  removing  to  France  was  forthwith 
carried  out. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


LIFE  IN  FRANCE ILLNESS LETTERS — DISPUTES  WITH  PUB- 
LISHERS  COMPOSITION  OF  “ THE  SMUGGLER,”  AND  OF  “ THE 

DWARF  BRIDE” WRITES  DRAMATIC  PIECES  FOR  THOMAS 

ARNOLD “ THE  DEATH  FETCH,  OR  THE  STUDENT  OF  GOTTIN- 

GEN ” REPRESENTED  AT  THE  ENGLISH  OPERA  HOUSE:  STRIC- 
TURES OF  “ THE  TIMES  ” ON  ITS  PLOT LETTERS ILLNESS  OF 

BANIM’s  MOTHER:  BEAUTIFUL  TRAITS  OF  HER  LOVE  FOR  JOHN 
LETTERS DEATH  OF  OLD  MRS.  BANIM LETTERS KIND- 
NESS OF  FRIENDS  IN  BOULOGNE TROUBLES  OF  AUTHORSHIP 

DISPUTES  WITH,  AND  LOSSES  BY  PUBLISHERS WRITES  FOR 

THE  “ ANNUALS  ” LETTERS ILL  HEALTH  AND  PECUNIARY 

EMBARRASSMENTS A SON  BORN SICK  OF  THE  CHOLERA;  A 

RELAPSE PUBLICATION  OF  “ THE  CHAUNT  OF  THE  CHOLERA  ” 

PUBLICATION  OF  “ THE  MAYOR  OF  WINDGAP,”  AND  OF  MISS 

MARTIN’S  “ CANVASSING,”  IN  NEW  SERIES  OF  “ TALES  BY  THE 

O’HARA  FAMILY” LETTERS — VISIT  OF  MRS.  BANIM  TO  LONDON 

DEBT  AND  EMBARRASSMENT AFFECTING  LETTER APPEAL 

ON  BANIM’S  BEHALF  IN  “ THE  SPECTATOR,”  AND  BY  STERLING, 

<£  THE  THUNDERER,”  IN  <C  THE  TIMES  ” LETTER  FROM  BANIM 

TO  “ THE  TIMES  ” MEETINGS  IN  DUBLIN,  CORK,  KILKENNY, 

AND  LIMERICK,  IN  AID  OF  BANIM REPORT  OF  THE  DUBLIN 

meeting:  sheil’s  speech:  the  resolutions,  and  names  of 

SUBSCRIBERS  AND  COMMITTEE COMMITTEE  ROOM  OPENED — • 

LIBERALITY  OF  THE  LATE  SIR  ROBERT  PEEL LETTERS A 

SECOND  SON  BORN REMOVAL  TO  PARIS LETTERS — LINES  “ TO 

THE  COLOSSAL  ELEPHANT  ON  THE  SITE  OF  THE  BASTILLE” 

ILL  HEALTH;  COPY  OF  OPINION  ON  HIS  CASE  BY  FRENCH 

AND  ENGLISH  SURGEONS VIOLENT  REMEDIES:  THEIR  UNHAPPY 

RESULT LETTERS ANXIETY  TO  RETURN  TO  KILKENNY THE 

JOURNEY  FROM  PARIS  TO  BOULOGNE;  MISHAPS  BY  THE  WAY — • 
LINES,  ££  THE  CALL  FROM  HOME.” 

“ Whether  Hope  and  I shall  ever  become  intimate 
again  in  this  v/orld,  except  on  the  pilgrimage  to  the 


226 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


next,  is  very  doubtful,”  wrote  Robert  Southey  to  Henry 
Taylor,  when  grief  and  sickness  wrere  upon  him ; so 
it  was  now  with  poor  John  Banim,  praying,  amidst 
strange  scenes  and  ways  of  life  in  his  French  home, 
that  he  and  Hope  might  once  again  “become  inti- 
mate.” Like  Southey,  he  never  ceased  or  paused  in 
his  labor ; it  was  a sweet  labor,  which  duty  sanctified, 
and  thus  hoping  against  liOpe,  and  working  despite 
physical  pain,  his  first  months  of  residence  in  Boulogne 
were  passed.  And  what  months  of  suffering  were  these ! 
Months  in  which  the  whole  past  of  life,  with  all  its 
griefs  and  joys — with  all  its  aspirations  and  longings 
- — come  to  fruition  or  to  failure  — seemed  but  as  the 
dreams  of  a fevered  sleep ; and  nothing  was  but  the 
present  with  its  woes — nothing  to  be  but  a future  at 
whose  entrance  frowned  sickness,  and  want,  and  dis- 
appointment. When  hope  seemed  brightest — when  fame 
and  fortune  were  about  to  bless  him — sickness  pros- 
trated him,  and,  in  all  the  bitterness  of  bitter  grief, 
he  felt  the  truth  of  Tennyson’s  thought,  and  knew 

“ That  a sorrow’s  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier  things.” 

Ill  health  was  not,  however,  the  only  misfortune 
darkening  his  life  at  this  period.  He  had,  whilst  re- 
siding at  Eastbourne,  commenced  the  composition  of 
a novels  entitled  “The  Smuggler.”  In  this  work  he 
entered  upon  new  scenes  of  life,  all  the  characters 
being  English,  the  action  being  placed  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Eastbourne,  and  the  scenery  being  de- 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


227 


scribed  from  the  landscape  around  his  residence.'  The 
manuscript  of  this  novel  was  placed  in  the  hands  of 
the  publisher  in  the  month  of  December,  1829,  and 
the  book  was  to  have  appeared  early  in  the  following 
year ; but  Banim  was  sick  and  helpless  in  France ; 
disputes  as  to  terms  arose  between  author  and  pub- 
lisher ; wearying  and  violent  letters  passed  between 
them ; no  progress  as  to  final  terms  was  made,  and  so, 
for  a time,  the  matter  rested. 

He  was  not,  amidst  all  these  troubles,  idle  ; but  it 
seemed  as  if  Providence  had  ordered  that  all  his  efforts 
to  keep  his  name  before  the  reading  portion  of  the 
nation  should  fail.  Whilst  the  disputes  relating  to 
S£  The  Smuggler  ” continued,  Banim  wrote  another  tale, 
entitled  “ The  Dwarf  Bride,”  but  the  publisher  in  whose 
hands  it  was  placed  for  publication  became  bankrupt 
before  the  printing  had  been  commenced,  and  all  efforts 
to  discover  the  manuscript  amongst  his  papers  were 
vain. 

Thus,  twice  baffied  in  the  pursuit  of  fame,  and  in 
neither  instance  through  his  own  fault  (and  how  he 
felt  this  forced  absence  of  his  name  from  before  the 
public,  the  reader  knows — he  feared  it  as  a step  towards 
oblivion),  there  was  yet  a deeper  source  of  regret,  and 
one  which  neither  money  nor  facile  publishers  could 
remove — his  mother  was  dying  — dying,  and  her  own 
“graw  bawn”  far  away,  and  never  more  in  life  was 
she  to  see  him.  She  had  been  ill  during  all  the  year 
1829,  and  at  the  commencement  of  1830,  she  was  only 


228 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


able  to  move,  with  assistance,  from  her  bedchamber  to 
a little  sitting-room  adjoining.  She  loved  to  linger  in 
this  latter  room,  as  in  it  John  used  to  sit ; here  he  had 
sketched  for  her  a portrait  of  himself,  which  now  hung 
upon  the  wall,  and  was  so  placed  that  it  was  the  first 
object  on  which  her  eye  could  rest  on  entering  the 
apartment.  And  in  this  humble  room,  daily,  there 
might  be  witnessed  one  of  the  most  touching  scenes 
that  the  fancy  could  form.  Moving  slowly  from  her 
bedchamber,  the  mother  tottered  to  a chair  placed 
before  John's  portrait ; she  sat  and  gazed  upon  it,  lost 
in  thoughts — in  those  thoughts  which  have  been  so 
truly  called  “ bitter-sweet, ’’ — then  she  bent  her  head 
as  if  in  deep  communion  with  God,  and,  gazing  still 
upon  the  picture,  she  “ blessed  herself"  and  com- 
menced her  morning  prayer,  during  which  she  never 
moved  her  eyes  from  the  portrait,  and  as  she  prayed 
tears  rolled  down  her  face ; thus,  she  looked,  and 
prayed,  and  wept,  and  exemplified  that  exquisite  re- 
flection of  Cowper — 

“ And  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free, 

And  I can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 

Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft — 

Thyself  removed,  thy  pow’r  to  soothe  me  left.” 

During  the  closing  months  of  her  life,  Mrs.  Banim 
wTas  unable  to  leave  her  bed,  and  then  the  portrait  was 
placed  in  her  room,  where  she  could  look  upon  it  con- 
stantly. John  longed  to  see  her  once  more,  but  his 
health  was  not  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  bear  the 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


229 


fatigue  of  the  journey ; and  he  wrote  to  Michael  as 
follows  : — 


| “ Boulogne,  May  2d,  1830. 

“My  dear  Michael,  — I am  now  a paralyzed  man. 
walking  with  much  difficulty.  I move  slowly  and  cau- 
tiously, assisted  by  a stick,  and  any  good  person’s  arm 
charitable  enough  to  aid  me.  It  is  not  to  add  to  your 
trouble  that  I thus  describe  myself ; I only  tell  you  to 
prepare  you  at  home  for  the  change.  I look  well,  and 
my  spirit  is  yet  uncrippled.  Go  to  my  mother’s  bed-side 
as  soon  as  you  receive  this,  and  say  what  you  can  for 
me.  I think  she  need  not  know  that  I am  so  lame.” 

In  the  month  of  June,  1830,  just  seven  weeks  after 
the  date  of  this  letter,  old  Mrs.  Banim  died,  and  the 
announcement  of  her  death  came  with  a crushing  effect 
upon  the  already  weakened  energies  of  her  son — a son 
who  might  most  truly  proclaim  himself,  “ tender  and 
only-beloved  in  the  sight  of  my  mother.”  He  declared 
that  he  had  never  before  known  sorrow,  and  was  quite 
unmanned  and  prostrated  by  the  crowd  of  calamities 
which  had  gathered  around  and  burst  upon  him,  in 
his  time  of  sorest  and  most  pressing  need ; and  in  a 
paroxysm  of  grief  and  disappointment,  he  thus  wrote 
to  Michael 

“Boulogne,  July  4th.,  1830. 

“ My  dear  Brother, — You  will  naturally  ask  yourself, 
‘Why  has  not  John  written?’  Dear  Michael,  I could 
not,  and  I have  no  explanation — only,  I could  not.  And 
now  I have  not  a single  word  to  the  purpose  to  say,  al- 
though, after  a fortnight’s  silence,  I do  write.  The  blow 


230 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


has  not  yet  left  me  master  of  myself.  A blow  indeed  it 
was.  Your  letter  was  suddenly  thrust  into  my  hand, 
and  the  color  of  the  wax  told  me,  at  a glance,  that  my 
mother  had  left  me.  I fell  to  the  ground,  without 
having  opened  it ; I anticipated  the  contents.  You 
tell  me  to  be  tranquil.  It  is  in  vain.  I never  felt 
anguish  before.  Yet  it  is  true  that  the  certainty  of 
the  spiritualized  lot  of  our  mother  is  a grand  consola- 
tion ; so  also  is  the  certainty  that  she  died  in  the  arms 
of  those  she  loved,  and  who  loved  her. 

“ Not  a very  long  time  shall  elapse,  if  I live,  till  we 
meet  in  Kilkenny.  My  wanderings,  with  God’s  leave, 
must  end  there.” 

Time  healed  this  wound  ; with  some  slight  return 
of  health,  liis  spirits  revived.  The  quarrel  with  the 
publisher  of  “The  Smuggler”  was  arranged,  and  it  was 
agreed  that  the  book  should  appear  early  in  the  year 
1832  ; employment  as  a contributor  to  the  Annuals 
and  Magazines  was  obtained,  and  now,  as  ever,  Thomas 
Arnold  was  ready  to  accept  Banina’s  little  pieces  for 
the  English  Opera  House. 

These  pieces  were  light  and  ephemeral,  and,  though 
generally  successful,  were  not  of  a character  to  secure 
a place  amongst  the  stock  plays  of  the  theatre.  One, 
however,  entitled  “ The  Death  Fetch ; or,  the  Student 
of  Gottingen,”  was  very  successful.  It  was  an  adapta- 
tion of  “ The  Fetches,”  in  the  first  series  of  “ Tales  by 
the  O’Hara  Family,”  and  The  Times  thus  commented 
upon  it.  We  must,  however,  bear  in  mind  that  these 
strictures  would  now  appear  out  of  place,  schooled  as 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


231 


we  liave  been  by  the  diablerie  and  double -shuffling 
of  “The  Corsican  Brothers.”  The  critique  is  as  fol- 
lows : — 

“ It  is  a dramatic  resurrection  of  the  story  of  1 The  Fetches,7  whic\> 
is  to  be  found  in  the  ‘ Tales  of  the  O’Hara  Family,7  and  has  been  in 
troduced  to  the  stage  by  Mr.  Banim,  the  author  of  those  tales.  Con 
sidering  that  it  is  exceedingly  difficult,  through  the  medium  of  & 
dramatic  entertainment,  to  impress  the  minds  of  an  audience  wiU 
those  supernatural  imaginings  which  each  individual  may  indulge  in 
while  reading  a volume  of  the  mysterious  and  wonderful,  we  think 
Mr.  Banim  has  manifested  considerable  adroitness  in  adapting  hia 
novel  to  the  stage.  We  think,  at  the  same  time,  that  his  abilities 
might  have  been  much  better  employed.  The  perpetuation  of  the 
idea  of  such  absurd  phantasies  as  fetches  and  fairies — witches  and 
wizards — is  not  merely  ridiculous,  but  it  is  mischievous.  There  was 
scarcely  a child  (and  we  observed  many  present)  who  last  night  wit- 
nessed the  ‘fetch,’  or  double  of  the  Gottingen  student  and  his  mistress, 
and  who  recollects  the  wild  glare  of  Miss  Kelly’s  eye  (fatuity  itself, 
much  less  childhood,  would  have  marked  it)  that  will  not  tremble 
and  shudder  when  the  servant  withdraws  the  light  from  the  resting- 
place  of  the  infant.  Such  scenes  cannot  be  useful  to  youth  ; and, 
leaving  the  skill  of  the  actor  out  of  the  question,  we  know  not  how 
they  can  give  pleasure  to  age.  This  theatre  was  ostensibly  instituted 
as  a sort  of  stay  and  support  to  legitimate  ‘ English  Opera  ;7  and  we 
feel  convinced  that  one  well-written  English  opera,  upon  the  model 
of  the  old  school — that  school  so  well  described  by  General  Bur- 
goyne  in  his  preface  to  his  own  excellent  work,  1 The  Lord  of  the 
Manor,7  would  do  more  credit  to  the  proprietor  of  this  theatre,  and 
bring  more  money  to  his  treasury,  than  ; a wilderness  of  Franken- 
steins  and  Fetches.7  77  * 

The  assistance  derived  from  his  pay  as  a playwright 
and  magazine  contributor  was  not,  as  the  reader  may 
readily  understand,  sufficient  to  support  him  in  his  ill- 
ness ; and  thus  embarrassments  became  more  involved. 

* “ The  Death  Fetch”  was  performed  in  Boulogne  during  Banim’s  residence 
there.  It  was  translated  into  French  by  a friend.  During  the  performance  of 
the  piece,  all  children  were  removed  from  the  theatre. 


232 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BAN1M. 


During  the  greater  part  of  the  year  1830,  and  during 
the  whole  of  1831,  his  letters,  though  few,  were  entirely 
occupied  by  statements  of  his  sicknesses  and  of  his 
poverty.  A son  was  born  to  him  in  1831,  and  here  he 
found,  mingled  with  his  gladness  at  the  event,  a new 
sorrow  for  his  wants ; but  still,  as  his  child  smiled,  he 
hoped  that  Heaven  would  smile  with  it,  and,  thus  hope- 
ful, he  toiled  onward  until  the  commencement  of  the 
year  1832,  when  he  wrote  these  few  brave,  pitiable  lines 
to  his  brother  : — 


“Boulogne.  January  20th,  1832. 

“My  dear  Michael — My  legs  are  quite  gone,  and  1 
suffer  agony  in  the  extreme,  yet  I try  to  work  for  all 
that.,, 

Michael,  upon  receipt  of  these  lines,  wrote  to  him 
asking  information  as  to  his  position  in  regard  of  money 
matters,  and  this  short  note  was  the  reply  : — 

“ Boulogne.  February  2 5th,  1832. 

“ My  dear  Michael — Yes,  it  is  but  too  true,  I am  em- 
barrassed, more  so  than  I ever  expected  to  be.  By  what 
means  ? By  extravagance  ? My  receipts,  and  my  living 
since  I left  England,  would  contradict  that.  By  castle 
building  ? No — ‘ The  Visitation  of  God.’  ” 

Whilst  thus  afflicted  he  could  still  serve  Michael,  and 
at  this  same  time  in  which  these  letters  were  written, 
he  was  reading  and  correcting  Michael’s  tale,  “The 
Ghost  Hunter  and  his  Family,”  and  “ The  Mayor  of 
Windgap.”  The  former  was,  as  we  have  already  shown, 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


233 


founded  upon  a dramatic  sketch  furnished  by  John 
Banim,  and  was  published  in  “The  Library  of  Ro- 
mance,” edited  by  Leitch  Ritchie;  the  latter  appeared 
in  the  third  series  of  “Tales  by  the  O’Hara  Family,” 
to  which  Miss  Martin  contributed  her  admirable  story 
of  Irish  life,  “ Canvassing.” 

In  this  year  (1832)  the  cholera  was  epidemic  in  Bou- 
logne, and  Banim  was  attacked  by  it.  Weak  and  worn 
though  we  know  him  to  have  been,  he  struggled  through 
the  illness  ; then  he  relapsed,  but,  after  a fearful  effort, 
survived  the  second  attack.  Weak  and  shattered  in 
body  for  ever — weak  and  shattered  for  a time  in  mind — • 
this  noble-hearted  man,  who  had  so  long  fought  against 
sorrow,  and  pain,  and  disappointment,  thus  wrote  to  a 
Dublin  friend,  then  a political  and  literary  leader,  and 
now  discharging  the  duties  of  an  important  and  onerous 
post : — 

“ November  28th,  1832. 
“Sir, — Your  generous  letter  to  me  on  a former  oc- 
casion is  my  sole  inducement  to  address  you  now  upon, 
literally,  the  question  of  my  life  or  death. 

“Friends,  among  whom  were  my  physicians,  have 
kindly  suggested  some  such  application  as  the  present 
on  their  own  part ; but  there  are  certain  avowals  which 
I prefer  making  in  my  own  person. 

“When  I had  last  the  honor  of  writing  to  you,  I was 
engaged  on  two  works,  from  which  I had  been  promised 
results  sufficient  to  re-establish  my  independence ; one, 
a novel,  the  ‘Dwarf  Bride;’  the  other,  a drama,  the  'Con- 
script’s Sister.’  When  the  first  was  nearly  completed, 
nay  publisher,  Mr.  Cochrane,  Waterloo  Place,  became 


234 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


a bankrupt,  and  legal  advice  induced  me  to  lay  it  by, 
and  begin  three  other  volumes ; of  these  I finished  two 
(one  tale  in  two  volumes),  and  was  proceeding  with 
the  third  volume,  when  I took  the  cholera,  and  had  a 
relapse.  The  consequent  loss  of  time  and  increased 
expense  pressed  me  to  dispose  of  these  two  volumes. 
No  regular  novel  publisher  would  treat  for  less  than 
three  volumes,  and  I was  glad  to  dispose  to  Mr.  Leitch 
Ritchie,  for  his  forthcoming  ‘Library  of  Romance/  the 
tale  in  question  at  a very  low  rate:  meantime,  my  ‘Con- 
script’s Sister  ’ ran  at  the  English  Opera  every  night  till 
the  close  of  the  season  ; but,  owing  to  the  necessities  of 
the  manager,  brought  me  nothing.  1 then  set  to  work 
at  other  things,  until  struck  down  in  such  a manner  that 
my  medical  advisers  interdicted  mental  exertion  for  some 
time,  at  the  peril  of  loss  of  life  (I  refer  to  their  certifi- 
cates), though  with  very  good  hopes  that,  if  allowed 
rest,  freedom  from  troubles,  and  change  of  climate,  I 
should  rally,  and  be  able  to  go  on.  The  malady  which 
now  so  sorely  afflicts  me  has  been  creeping  on  me  the 
last  ten  years,  ever  since  I was  twenty-three — (I  am  not 
yet  thirty-four) — the  result  of  too  much  labor.  In  truth, 
of  more  than  twenty  known  volumes  I have  written,  and 
of  treble  their  quantity  of  matter  in  periodicals,  with- 
in the  ten  years  alluded  to,  no  three  pages  have  been 
penned  free  of  bodily  torture ; which  at  last  ends  in 
depriving  me  (temporarily,  my  physicians  say,  should 
this  application  succeed)  of  the  use  of  my  limbs  and 
brains. 

“Under  these  circumstances,  with  their  inevitable 
consequences,  not  only  want  of  present  and  future 
funds,  but  heavy  debts,  incurred  from  sheer  necessity, 
my  literary  friends,  French  and  English,  advise  me  to 
solicit  temporary  aid  from  those  favored  individuals  of 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


235 


my  country  who  are  known  (as  you  are)  for  literary 
eminence,  or  as  admirers  and  patrons  of  literature,  and 
to  whom,  at  the  same  time,  it  has  pleased  God  to  afford 
the  means  (without  inconveniencing  themselves)  of 
saving  for  his  family  the  life  of  a man  who  is  considered 
by,  perhaps,  too  partial  friends,  to  have  some  claims  on 
national  sympathy  and  protection.  The  grounds  as- 
sumed by  those  friends  to  justify  so  flattering  an  ex- 
pectation are  as  follows  : — 

“The  circulation  of  my  books  through  the  United 
Kingdom  ; their  reprinting  in  America ; their  having 
been  translated  into  French  and  German  ; and  their 
uniform  political  tendency — viz.,  the  formation  of  a good 
and  affectionate  feeling  between  England  and  Ireland. 
In  my  own  name  I add  that,  until  the  hand  of  Heaven 
visited  me,  I am  conscious  of  having  passed  from  early 
youth  a life  of  industry,  always  with  a view  to  indepen- 
dence. For  instance  (I  quote  facts  easily  ascertainable), 
that  at  seventeen  I obtained  the  first  prize  as  the  first 
draughtsman  in  the  Dublin  Academy  of  Arts ; that  at 
nineteen  I wrote  into  wide  circulation  a Whig  journal 
(the  Leinster  Journal)  in  my  native  city  of  Kilkenny; 
at  twenty-one  I received  a vote  of  thanks  from  a general 
meeting  of  the  artists  of  Ireland,  for  my  advocacy  with 
the  Irish  Government  of  their  demands  for  an  incor- 
porated academy,  which  they  now  possess ; that  at 
twenty-two  I produced  a successful  tragedy,  ‘Damon 
and  Pythias/  at  Covent  Garden ; that  at  twenty-five  I 
was  known,  at  least  as  a national  novelist,  even  though 
of  a humble  order,  to  European  literature  ; and  that 
since  that  period,  I have  written  twenty  successful 
novels  and  five  successful  dramas.  And  I trust  most 
respectfully  that  you  will  not  consider  this  mere  idle 
boast,  but  rather  as  a proof  of  my  deep  and  conscien- 


236 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANItf. 


tious  anxiety  to  show  that  no  habitual  want  of  the  pride 
of  independence  forces  me  now  before  you. 

“ My  friends  suggest  to  me  to  add,  that  they  consider 
me  called  on  to  make  known  my  position,  in  order  to 
afford  to  the  affluent  protectors  of  literature  the  oppor- 
tunity of  saving  me  from  death  in  poverty,  from  the 
misfortune  of  not  having  known  in  time  how  much 
might  have  been  accomplished  for  my  family  and  my- 
self by  a prompt  appeal  to  their  generosity. 

“ It  becomes  necessary  to  explain  within  what  time 
my  urgent  necessities  require  effectual  relief.  During 
the  two  years  and  a half  of,  I trust,  unmerited  disap- 
pointment, I am  in  debt  JS400 ; this  I must  settle 
before  Christmas,  or,  in  my  present  state  of  health,  go 
to  prison.  A further  sum  will  be  required  for  traveling 
hence,  and  living  two  years  in  a more  favorable  climate, 
every  step  increasing  the  expenses  of  a helpless  invalid ; 
but  this  latter  sum  would  not  be  absolutely  necessary 
till  early  next  spring,  before  which  time  I am  not  ad- 
vised to  leave  Boulogne.  For  immediate  necessities 
Mrs.  Banim  would  now  thankfully  accept  a part  of  the 
first-named  sum,  as  she  leaves  home  without  a franc 
in  the  house,  and  borrowing  the  money  for  her  journey. 
And  now,  Sir,  in  conclusion,  if  I have  not  minutely  de- 
scribed my  melancholy  feelings  on  this  occasion,  or 
sufficiently  expressed  my  sense  of  the  very  great  trouble 
to  which  I expose  you  by  this  application,  believe  me  it 
is  not  from  a want  of  understanding  my  own  position, 
or  of  duly  estimating  yours. 

“ I have  the  honor  to  be,  &c., 

“ John  Banim.” 

The  effects  of  the  attacks  of  cholera  on  Banim’s 
health  were  very  and  lamentably  evident.  He  found 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


237 


himself  incapable  of  continued  exertion;  and  at  a time, 
too,  when  the  price  of  exertion  was  most  needed  ; for, 
at  the  close  of  1832,  a second  son  was  born  to  him. 
But  life,  they  told  him,  could  only  be  preserved  by  a 
total  cessation  from  all  occupation.  This  was  a hard 
sentence;  and,  much  perplexed,  he  thus,  announcing  it, 
wrote  to  Michael  : — 

“ Boulogne,  December  30th,  1832. 

“ It  is  impossible  for  me  to  go  on.  For  the  last  six 
months  I am  under  the  ban  of  the  physicians,  not  to 
work,  at  the  risk  of  my  life.  The  ban  continues  for  a 
year.  In  fact,  the  cholera  so  shook  me,  that  the  partial 
paralysis  of  my  limbs  extended,  and  made  free  with  my 
head.  Idleness  has  made  me  better,  and  they  give  me 
hopes  of  health,  and  continuation  of  life,  if  I go  on 
idling,  and  going  about  in  hired  vehicles,  and  so  forth. 
How  is  all  this  to  end  ? ” 

About  three  weeks  after  the  date  of  this  letter,  Mrs. 
Banim  visited  London,  for  the  purpose  of  arranging 
the  payment  of  the  bills  which  had  been  given  in 
part  payment  of  the  copyright  of  “ The  Smuggler  ” by 
the  publisher : and  she  took  this  opportunity  of  call- 
ing upon  some  of  Banim’s  literary  friends,  chiefly  his 
fellow-countrymen,  and  represented  to  them  her  hus- 
band’s state  in  health  and  fortune.  All  aided  her  by 
placing  the  matter  before  the  public;  but  her  best  and 
most  hearty  advocate  was  the  editor  of  The  Times , 
he  whom  Carlyle  has  nicknamed  “ The  Thunderer,” 
the  father  of  John  Sterling. 

The  Sterlings,  father  and  son,  had,  during  Banim’s 


238 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


residence  in  London,  been  kind  to  him  ; young  Sterling 
had,  as  we  have  seen,  taken  him  down  on  a visit  to 
Cambridge,  and  had  shown  him  its  “ lions,”  and  intro- 
duced him  at  the  Union.  Old  Mrs.  Sterling  had  stood 
as  godmother,  with  Michael  Banim,  for  John’s  first 
child  Mary  ; and  now,  early  in  the  month  of  January, 
1833,  Mr.  Sterling  crowned  his  kindness  by  writing,  in 
The  Times , a brilliant  and  truthful  appeal  on  behalf 
of  his  sick  and  suffering  friend.  The  appeal  having 
been  at  once  supported  by  The  Spectator , Banim  thus 
expressed  his  gratitude  in  a letter  addressed  to  the 
editor  of  The  Times: — 


“ Boulogne-sur-Mer,  January  20th. 

“ Sir, — Accept  my  grateful  acknowledgments  for  the 
feeling  exertions  made  by  The  Times , and  since  by  the 
rest  of  the  London  press.  Through  you.  Sir,  I request 
your  kind  fellow-laborers  to  receive  my  cordial  thanks ; 
and  perhaps  you  will  allow  me  to  take  this  opportunity 
of  expressing  my  feelings  on  another  subject. 

“In  a very  beautiful  article  on  my  affairs,  which  I 
have  seen  extracted  in  The  Courier  of  the  14th  from 
The  Spectator,  there  is  one  little  phrase  reflecting  on 
the  character  of  the  place  in  which  I at  present  reside — 
the  only  one  penned  by  my  generous  though  unknown 
advocate  that  did  not  give  me  the  sincerest  grati- 
fication ; for  I am  bound  to  declare  that  in  every — the 
most  delicate — sense  in  which  the  noble  word  hospi- 
tality can  apply,  I have  experienced  it  in  Boulogne, 
from  French  as  well  as  English  ; that  here  I found 
friends,  the  kindest,  the  truest,  in  adversity — in  a word, 
Sir,  the  day  of  my  necessary  departure  from  Boulogne 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


239 


will  be  to  me  one  of  deep  regret  and  affliction;  and  I 
pray  you  to  allow  publicity  to  these  true  sentiments  of 
my  heart. 

“ I am,  Sir,  your  obliged,  obedient  Servant, 

4 ‘John  Banim.” 

These  appeals  excited  the  humanity  and  generosity 
of  many  distinguished  persons.  Liberal  sums  were 
forwarded  to  Banim — through  Dr.  Bowring  from  the 
late  Earl  Grey,  and  through  Mr.  Ashburnham  from 
that  never  - tiring  friend  of  the  struggling  man  of 
genius,  the  late  Sir  Bobert  Peel. 

Ireland  was  not  on  this  occasion  inactive.  Much  as 
we  neglect  the  memory  of  our  great  dead  — of  those 
Kings  of  Thought  who 

“ rule  us  from  the  page  iu  which  they  breathe,” 

our  people  are  generally  willing  to  assist  the  needy 
literary  man  who  requires  aid  in  misfortunes  which 
have  come  upon  him  neither  by  his  own  faults  nor  by 
his  own  vices.  After  the  appearance  of  Banim’s  letter 
to  The  Times , a subscription  list  was  forthwith  opened 
in  Dublin  and  in  Clonmel ; and  the  names  entered 
during  the  first  day  in  Dublin  were  these  : — Matthew 
Boyle,  £2;  E.  B.  H.,  £2;  Bichard  Barrett,  £1;  Michael 
Staunton,  £1;  Charles  Meara,  £ 1 ; Samuel  Lover,  <£1; 
A Beader  of  “The  Nowlans,”  £1;  T.  W.,  5s. 

Morrison’s  Great  Boom  was  offered,  free  of  charge, 
for  the  purpose  of  holding  a public  meeting  in  aid  of 
the  Banim  Fund,  and  such  a meeting  was  accordingly 


240 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


held,  on  the  31st  of  January,  1833 — the  Lord  Mayor, 
Alderman  Archer,  presiding. 

The  following  is  a report  of  the  speeches  made  and 
the  resolutions  adopted,  with  other  particulars  of  this 
interesting  event  : — • 

SUBSCRIPTION  FOR  THE  AUTHOR  OF  “ TALES  BY 
THE  OHARA  FAMILY.” 

“Yesterday,  there  was  a meeting  of  the  friends  and  admirers  of 
John  Banim,  the  author  of  ‘The  Nowlans,’  and  other  Irish  novels, 
held  in  Morrison’s  Tavern,  Dawson  Street.  The  attendance  upon  this 
occasion  was  most  respectable,  and  comprised  men  of  all  sects,  par- 
ties, and  professions.  Amongst  those  present  we  noticed  the  Lord 
Mayor;  the  High  Sheriff,  Captain  Lynar ; Richard  Shiel,  Esq.,  M.P.  ; 
Morgan  John  O’Connell,  Esq.;  J.  W.  Calcraft,  Esq.;  Isaac  Weld, 
Esq. ; Thomas  J.  Mulvany,  Esq. ; Charles  Meara,  Esq.  ; P.  Costelloe, 
Esq. ; J.  Cumming,  Esq. ; F.  W.  Wakeman,  Esq. ; J.  D.  Logan,  Esq. ; 
P.  Curtis,  Esq. 

“ The  Right  Hon.  the  Lord  Mayor  in  the  chair. 

“ S.  Lover  and  P.  Costelloe,  Esqs.,  were  requested  to  act  as  secre- 
taries to  the  meeting. 

“ A letter  was  read  from  Mr.  Howell,  regretting  that  he  was  unable 
to  attend,  and  inclosing  £1  as  his  subscription. 

“ Mr.  Sheil,  M.P.,  moved  the  first  resolution.  The  resolution  con- 
tained a statement  of  two  facts  which  stood  in  a melancholy  antithesis 
to  each  other.  It  asserted  the  great  eminence  of  Mr.  Banim,  as  an 
author  who  had  reflected  so  much  honor  upon  his  country,  and  the 
deplorable  need  to  which  that  distinguished  gentleman  had  been 
reduced,  not  by  any  fault  of  his  own,  but  by  a visitation  to  which 
genius  and  mediocrity  were  equally  exposed.  Read  a word  of  Mr. 
Banim’s,  and  you  will  see  him  in  imagination  placed  on  the  summits 
of  literature  ; look  to  the  mournful  realities,  and  you  will  behold  him 
stretched  on  a bed  of  pain,  in  loneliness  and  in  sorrow,  and  without 
any  other  solace  than  that  which  is  derived  from  the  consciousness 
that  his  misfortunes  have  been  the  result  of  long-continued  ailment, 
and  not  of  any  violation  of  those  rules  of  prudence  to  the  infringe- 
ment of  which  men  of  great  abilities  are  erroneously  supposed  to  be 
habitually  prone.  That  Mr.  Banim  was  a man  of  high  and  surpass- 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


241 


ing  talents  was  beyond  dispute.  His  works  were  written  with  that 
fidelity  to  nature  which  placed  him  at  the  head  of  the  writers  of 
fiction  of  our  time.  Pathos,  derived  from  the  purest  and  most  natu- 
ral sources — the  faculty  of  imparting  a most  tender  interest  to  scenes 
which  in  ordinary  life  are  attended  with  incidents  of  rudeness  and 
vulgarity,  which  at  first  view  would  seem  to  render  them  unfit  for 
the  excitement  of  that  species  of  emotion  which  it  is  the  great  end 
of  the  writers  of  romance  to  produce — a rare  dominion  over  the  im- 
agination of  his  readers,  by  which  he  brings  the  events  of  his  narra- 
tive with  such  a vividness  before  them,  that  they  almost  appear  to 
belong  to  their  own  existence,  and  to  be  witnessed  by  themselves — a 
great  mastery  of  the  picturesque — a vast  command  of  diction,  glow- 
ing and  illuminated  with  brilliant  thoughts — these  are  among  the 
characteristics  of  Mr.  Baninrs  works.  They  have  won  the  suffrages 
of  every  man  whose  opinion  is  of  any  value  in  these  countries.  The 
public,  by  far  the  best  critic,  has  set  a seal  upon  them  which  time 
will  not  break.  There  is  not  a man  that  hears  me — there  are  few 
individuals  in  this  great  city  who  have  not  read,  I might  be  justified 
in  saying,  who  have  not  wept  over  the  admirable  delineations  by  Mr. 
Banim  of  those  strange  occurrences  which  arise  in  this  island  of  ours, 
which  is  so  full  at  once  of  the  materials  of  merriment  and  of  woe,  of 
weeping  and  of  laughter,  and  which  it  requires  a mind  with  such  a 
knowledge  of  mirth  and  sorrow  as  Mr.  Banim  possesses  to  describe. 
He  is  not  inferior  in  his  own  province  to  Walter  Scott,  and  if  his 
writings  have  not  obtained  as  high  and  lucrative  a celebrity,  it  was 
perhaps  to  be  ascribed  to  his  having  chosen  Ireland  (to  use  a profes- 
sional phrase)  for  his  venue.  The  English  reader  did  not  understand 
Ireland,  and  was  little  qualified  to  estimate  the  truth  of  that  likeness 
whose  original  he  had  not  witnessed  ; but  it  was  incumbent  on  every 
man  who  loved  letters — on  every  man  who  had  the  least  sentiment  of 
literary  patriotism — to  come  forward  and  raise  a man,  still  young, 
and  capable  of  doing  great  things,  from  the  calamitous  posture  in 
which  the  illness  of  years  had  placed  him.  Let  Ireland,  his  own 
country,  lift  him  up.  In  England,  through  the  means  of  the  great 
journal  of  the  empire,  The  Times , a knowledge  of  his  misfortunes  had 
been  circulated ; the  effect,  he  (Mr.  Sheil)  thought,  would  be  most 
serviceable  to  Mr.  Banim.  But  Ireland  had  a double  office  to  per- 
form—to  relieve  a gentleman  who  had  done  her  honor  from  his  diffi- 
culties, and  to  vindicate  her  own  character  in  rescuing  one  of  those 
who  might  be  accounted  among  her  chief  ornaments  from  that  ruin 

11 


242 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


in  which  he  was  deeply,  but  not  irretrievably,  plunged.  Let  him 
arise  from  the  couch  on  which  he  is  laid  ; let  him  feel  how  much  he 
is  appreciated ; let  him  drink  of  that  best  of  all  restoring  draughts 
which  is  to  be  found  in  the  consciousness  of  a profound  sympathy 
among  those  whose  kindly  opinion  is  of  the  best  value.  Let  Banim 
say  to  himself,  ‘ My  country,  from  which  I am  far  away,  has  not  for- 
gotten me.’  The  thought  will  be  a salubrious  one.  It  will  be  full  of 
health,  and  confidence,  and  hope.  His  pen  will  fly  again  to  those 
hands  which  despair  had  almost  palsied,  and  he  will  live  to  add  still 
more  valuable  contributions  to  those  masterpieces  from  which  we 
have  derived  so  much  pleasure,  but  many  pages  of  which  were  writ- 
ten in  anguish  wrhich  none  but  those  familiar  with  the  calamities  of 
literature  can  appreciate.  (Loud  cheers.) 

“ Mr.  Curtis  seconded  the  resolution  proposed  hy  Mr.  Sheil.  The 
resolution  passed  unanimously. 

“Mr.  Weld,  in  proposing  the  second  resolution,  said  that  it  would 
be  in  vain  to  attempt  pronouncing  a panegyric  upon  the  great  merits 
of  Mr.  Banim  j these  had  been  already  touched  upon  by  a masterly 
hand — the  gentleman  who  preceded  him.  It  would  not  be  required 
to  bestow  any  further  praise  upon  Mr.  Banim  than  by  referring  to  one 
of  Mr.  Banim’s  novels  or  tales,  for  they  sufficiently  indicated  his  great 
invention,  and  his  wonderfully  descriptive  powers.  (Hear.)  Mr. 
Weld  then  mentioned  his  first  meeting  with  Mr.  Banim,  as  he  was 
traveling  in  the  North  of  Ireland,  and  Mr.  Banim  reminding  him  that 
he  (Mr.  W.)  had  been  the  medium  of  bestowing  upon  him  a prize  for 
one  of  his  drawings.  The  consequence  of  that  acquaintance  was  his 
giving  to  Mr.  Banim  letters  of  introduction  to  literary  friends  in 
London,  not  one  of  whom  did  not  afterwards  thank  him  (Mr.  W.)  for 
his  making  them  acquainted  with  such  a man  as  Mr.  Banim.  Mr. 
Banim’s  career  to  prosperity  was  stopped  short  by  illness,  and  his 
afflictions  were  increased  by  the  failure  of  booksellers  by  whom  he 
was  engaged.  When  Irishmen  saw  how  Washington  Irving  was 
treated  by  the  people  of  New  York — when  they  beheld  every  part  of 
the  world  made  tributary  to  the  genius  of  Scott — he  (Mr.  W.)  was 
sure  that  the  claims  of  Mr.  Banim  upon  their  gratitude  would  not  be 
disregarded.  (Cheers.) 

“ Mr.  Morgan  John  O’Connell  seconded  the  resolution  proposed  by 
Mr.  Weld.  The  resolution  passed  unanimously. 

“ The  next  resolution  was  proposed  by  Mr.  Norton,  and  seconded 
by  Mr.  Meara. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


243 


“Mr.  Burke  stated  that  there  were  many  gentlemen  who  were,  in 
consequence  of  this  being  the  last  day  of  term,  unable  to  attend 
there,  but  who  had  promised  him  to  give  most  substantial  proofs  of 
their  sympathy  for  Mr.  Banim. 

“ The  Rev.  Mr.  Groves,  in  proposing  a resolution,  expressed  a hope 
that  a new  era  was  arising,  as  far  as  literary  men  were  concerned, 
and  that  the  marks  of  public  gratitude  would  be  conferred  upon  them 
while  living,  instead  of  being  reserved  to  grace  their  monuments 
when  dead. 

“Captain  Lynar  (High  Sheriff  of  the  city)  felt,  he  said,  great 
pleasure  in  giving  his  aid  to  so  excellent  an  object  as  that  for  which 
they  were  that  day  assembled.  (Hear,  hear.)  He  was  rejoiced  to 
find,  too,  that  upon  such  an  occasion  there  was  a complete  unanimity 
of  feeling  and  sentiment  amongst  all  parties  and  all  classes.  (Cheers.) 

“ Mr.  J:  S.  Close  proposed  the  appointment  of  the  members  of  the 
Committee. 

“ Mr.  Kertland  said  he  felt  honored  in  being  allowed  in  an  assem- 
bly comparatively  small,  but  one  of  distinguished  talent,  to  second 
the  motion.  He  was  glad  his  friend,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Groves,  had  ad- 
verted to  the  fashion  of  allowing  persons  of  genius  to  ‘ pine  in  want/ 
and  after  their  miserable  demise,  the  raising  of  splendid  monuments 
to  their  memory. 

1 The  poet’s  fate  herein  is  shown, 

He  asks  for  bread,  they  give  a stone.1 

It  wTould  be  impertinent,  in  such  a meeting,  to  do  more  than  remind 
them  of  the  fate  of  many  a genius  who  perished  by  actual  want — • 
Otway,  Butler,  Chatterton,  and  many  others,  would  arise  before  their 
imaginations.  Let  Ireland  begin,  and  let  Mr.  Banim  and  his  family 
feel  the  full  effects  of  such  beginning — 

1 For  few  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 

The  steep  where  Fame’s  proud  temple  shines  afar, 

Ah ! wrho  can  tell  how  many  a soul  sublime 
Has  felt  the  influence  of  malignant  star, 

Check’d  by  the  scoff  of  Pride — by  Envy’s  frown, 

And  Poverty’s  unconquerable  bar  V 

He  had  only  further  to  say,  that  it  gave  him  pleasure  to  find  in  the 
meeting  gentlemen  differing  on  other  matters,  but  unanimous  to 


214 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


the  call  of  suffering  merit,  and  would,  in  conclusion,  remind  them 
that 

1 Seven  wealthy  towns  contend  for  Homer  dead, 

Through  which,  when  living,  Homer  begged  his  bread  P 
Mr.  Lover  pointed  out  the  great  advantages  to  be  derived  from 
gentlemen  taking  upon  themselves  the  office  of  collectors  amongst 
their  friends.  As  an  instance  of  the  advantage  to  be  derived  from 
doing  so,  he  stated  that  he  was  now  able  to  hand  in  £12  10s.  subscrip- 
tions to  their  treasurer.  (Hear.) 

“ Mr.  P.  Costelloe  found,  he  said,  men  of  all  parties  most  anxious 
to  contribute  to  the  relief  of  Mr.  Banim.  (Hear.)  Mr.  Banim  he  had 
known  from  his  childhood,  and  no  man  could  be  better  in  every  rela- 
tion of  life.  It  would  not  be  possible  to  know  a kinder  friend,  a bet- 
ter son,  a warmer-hearted  brother,  a more  affectionate  husband,  or  a 
fonder  father  than  John  Banim.  (Cheers.)  He  had  known  Mr.  Banim 
to  perform  acts  of  the  most  disinterested  benevolence,  and  to  relieve 
the  wants  of  others  when  his  own  means  were  not  very  ample. 
(Hear.)  The  people  of  Kilkenny  felt  honored  by  Mr.  Banim  belong- 
ing to  them,  and  they  would,  ere  long,  give  their  countryman  the 
best  proof  of  their  regard  for  him.  He  moved  a vote  of  thanks  to  Mr. 
Morrison,  who  had  the  kindness  to  give  them  his  room  upon  that 
occasion.  (Cheers.) 

“ Mr.  J.  D.  Logan  seconded  the  resolution,  and  stated  that  he  had 
corresponded  with  Mr.  Morrison  upon  the  subject,  and  could  state  the 
alacrity  with  which  Mr.  Morrison  had  responded  to  the  request  for  his 
rooms.  (Hear.) 

“Richard  Sheil,  Esq.,  M.P.,  was  then  called  to  the  chair,  and  thanks 
having  been  returned  to  the  Lord  Mayor,  the  meeting  adjourned. 

“ Several  subscriptions  were  paid  by  the  gentlemen  present.  Ten 
pounds  wrere  given  by  Mr.  Sheil. 

“ The  following  resolutions  were  unanimously  agreed  to  : — 

“ Moved  by  Richard  L.  Sheil,  Esq.,  and  seconded  by  Patrick  Curtis, 
Esq. : 

“ Resolved — That  we  have  heard,  with  sentiments  of  the  deepest 
sympathy,  an  account  of  the  state  of  destitution  with  which  our 
countryman,  John  Banim,  author  of  4 The  Tales  by  the  O'Hara 
Family,7  and  of  many  other  literary  productions  of  distinguished 
merit,  has  been  reduced  by  the  visitation  of  a painful  and  protracted 
malady,  which,  prohibiting  the  exertion  of  his  intellectual  powers, 
has  deprived  him  of  the  means  of  support  for  himself  and  his  family. 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


245 


“Moved  by  Isaac  Weld,  Esq.,  and  seconded  by  Morgan  John 
O’Connell,  Esq.  : 

“ Resolved — That  we  feel  ourselves  called  upon,  as  Irishmen,  and 
admirers  of  genius,  to  use  our  best  exertions  towards  the  relief  of  an 
author  whose  writings  have  contributed  largely  to  our  intellectual 
enjoyments,  and  have  elevated  the  character  of  our  common  country- 
in  the  scale  of  literature. 

“ Moved  by  Thomas  Norton,  Esq.,  and  seconded  by  Charles  Meara, 
Esq. : 

“ Resolved — That  a subscription  be  forthwith  opened  towards  form- 
ing a fund  to  relieve  Mr.  Banim’s  pecuniary  privations ; and  that  a 
Committee  of  the  following  gentlemen  be  now  appointed  to  carry  this 
resolution  into  effect,  and  to  superintend  the  management  and  dis- 
posal of  the  sum  contributed 

“ The  Right  Hon.  the  Lord  Mayor  ; Mr.  High  Sheriff  Lynar  ; Rev. 
Doctor  Sadleir,  F.T.C.D. ; Colonel  D’Aguilar,  Adjutant-General ; Rev. 
Charles  Boy  ton,  F.T.C.D.;  Richard  Lalor  She'll,  Esq.,  M.P. ; James 
Semple,  Esq. ; Morgan  John  O’Connell,  Esq. ; Patrick  Curtis,  Esq. ; 
Joseph  Burke,  Esq. ; Thomas  Norton,  Esq. ; Charles  Meara,  Esq. ; J. 
W.  Calcraft,  Esq. ; George  Howell,  Esq. ; Pierse  Mahony,  Esq.  ; Rev. 
Edward  Groves;  Frederick  Win.  Conway,  Esq.;  R.  Sheehan,  Esq.; 
Michael  Staunton,  Esq. ; Patrick  Lavelle,  Esq. ; Thomas  Wright, 
Esq.,  M.D. ; J.  S.  Close,  Esq. ; H.  F.  Wakeman,  Esq. ; Ross  Cox,  Esq. ; 
William  Cummin g,  Esq. ; J.  W.  King,  Esq. ; J.  S.  Coyne,  Esq. ; W. 
Carleton,  Esq. ; Thomas  Kennedy,  Esq. 

“ Moved  by  Joseph  Burke,  Esq.,  and  seconded  by  the  Rev.  Edward 
Groves : 

“ Resolved — That  Isaac  Weld,  Esq.,  be  requested  to  act  as  treasurer 
to  this  Committee. 

“Moved  by  Sheriff  Lynar,  and  seconded  by  J.  W.  Calcraft,  Esq.: 

“ Resolved — That  our  best  thanks  are  due  to  the  conductors  of  the 
Times  London  newspaper,  for  having  brought  into  public  notice  the 
destitute  situation  of  Mr.  Banim,  and  for  their  continued  exertions 
to  direct  attention  to  the  most  appropriate  means  of  affording  him 
relief. 

“ Moved  by  J.  S.  Close,  Esq.,  and  seconded  by  William  Kertland, 
Esq.: 

“ Resolved — That  the  thanks  of  this  meeting  be  given  to  Mr.  Mor- 
rison, for  his  kindness  in  affording  the  accommodation  of  his  rooms 
on  the  present  occasion. 


246 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


“ The  Lord  Mayor  having  left  the  chair,  and  Richard  Lalor  Shell, 
Esq.,  M.  P.,  having  been  called  to  it,  it  was 

“ Moved  by  Thomas  Norton,  Esq.,  seconded  by  Joseph  Burke,  Esq., 
and 

Resolved — That  the  thanks  of  this  meeting  be  given  to  the  Lord 
Mayor  for  his  dignified  conduct  in  the  chair,  and  for  the  lively  inter- 
est he  has  taken  in  promoting  the  objects  of  this  meeting.” 

The  committee  rooms  were  at  once  opened  at  Morri- 
son’s Hotel,  and  a Kilkenny  man,  Patrick  Costelloe, 
and  Samuel  Lover,  were  nominated  honorary  secretaries. 
Referring  to  these  efforts  to  relieve  his  brother’s  wants, 
Michael  Banim  writes  to  us  thus  : — 

“ Public  meetings  took  place,  and  subscriptions  were 
entered  into,  in  London,  Dublin,  Kilkenny,  and  many 
other  places  ; and  from  the  result,  the  recipient  was 
enabled  to  pay  heavy  debts  long  outstanding,  and  I 
believe  unavoidably  contracted  ; and  to  remain  in  Paris 
for  two  years,  while  under  the  care  of  the  principal 
members  of  the  Faculty  then  practising.  His  malady 
was,  however,  beyond  the  skill  even  of  these. 

“ Throughout  the  entire  period  of  his  embarrassment 
and  mental  and  bodily  endurance,  in  France,  no  one 
could  meet  with  more  sympathy  than  did  my  brother. 
While  resident  in  Boulogne,  the  English  and  Irish  visit- 
ants were  most  attentive  to  him.  In  Paris,  he  met 
kindness  and  service  from  persons  whom  he  was  after- 
wards vain  perhaps  of  naming  as  visitants  of  the  sick 
couch  ; for  a while  he  was  unable  to  rise  without  being 
borne  by  others.  Two  only  of  his  visitors  I will  par- 
ticularise— the  venerable  La  Fayette  and  the  illustrious 
Chateaubriand.  Many  distinguished  English  residents 
of  the  French  metropolis  were  his  friends  and  sus- 
tainers.  One  wealthy  Irish  lady  in  particular,  he  after- 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM.  217 

wards  spoke  of  with  gratitude  and  affection.  I refrain 
from  giving  names — those  so  marked  out  might  not 
relish  the  promulgation  of  their  philanthropy. 

By  slow  stages  Banim  proceeded,  towards  the  end  of 
1833,  from  Boulogne  to  Paris.  He  had  resolved  to 
reside  in  the  latter  city,  in  the  hope  that,  amongst  its 
distinguished  physicians,  some  one  might  be  found  who 
could  relieve  his  pain-racked  and  powerless  limbs.  He 
did  indeed  consult  the  most  skillful  and  famous  of  the 
Faculty,  but  all  their  efforts  to  restore  him  were  un- 
availing, or  worse,  injurious. 

That  the  reader  may  be  enabled  to  comprehend 
Banim’s  condition  at  this  period,  we  here  subjoin  a 
written  opinion  of  his  case,  drawn  up,  after  a careful 
personal  examination  of  their  patient,  by  two  eminent 
physicians  (one  French,  the  other  English)  whose  names 
the  document  bears.  Banim  preserved  this  opinion 
most  carefully  to  the  hour  of  his  death ; the  painful 
remedies  and  treatment  recommended,  and  their  woeful 
results,  seem  to  have  had  for  him  a terrible,  gloomy 
fascination.  The  opinion  is  as  follows,  but  for  obvious 
reasons  we  omit  the  names  with  which  it  is  signed  : — 

“The  affection  under  which  Mr.  Banim  labors  appears 
to  be  chronic  inflammation  of  the  lower  extremity  of  the 
spinal  marrow.  An  attentive  examination  of  its  origin, 
progress,  and  actual  state,  has  suggested  to  us  the  pro- 
priety of  adopting  the  following  treatment : — 

“1st.  Dry  cupping,  and  scarifications  with  cupping, 
on  the  lower  part  of  the  lumbar  region,  where  the  pain 


218 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


seems  to  originate.  This  treatment  to  be  continued 
gradually  along  the  spine  to  the  neck : after  two  or 
three  repetitions  it  is  to  be  discontinued. 

“2d.  Small  moxas,  to  the  parts  where  the  scarifi- 
cations were  made,  and  these  moxas  to  be  continued, 
at  proper  intervals,  up  to  the  neck  ; with  the  moxas 
may  be  used  frictions  of  tartar  emetic  ointment  along 
the  spine  until  pimples  appear  ; the  extremities  to  be 
rubbed  morning  and  evening  with  stimulating  liniments. 

“ 3d.  An  actual  cautery,  applied  gently  from  the  lower 
part  of  the  back  to  the  neck,  at  the  interval  of  two  or 
three  inches,  would  even  be  perferable  to  the  moxas. 

“4th.  When  this  treatment  has  been  used  for  some 
time,  vapor  baths,  particularly  sulphureous,  will  be  of 
the  greatest  possible  service. 

“ 5th.  The  cure  will  be  tedious,  but  the  good  consti- 
tution of  Mr.  Banim  gives  strong  hope  that  he  will 
eventually  triumph  over  his  present  malady. 

(Signed)  


“ Paris,  le  25 me  Avril,  1834.- 1 

Thus  was  he  treated.  “The  cupping,”  writes  Michael 
to  us,  “the  moxas,  the  scarifications,  the  lubrications, 
et  csetera,  were  all  performed,  as  I suppose,  very  scien- 
tifically, and  when  the  body  thus  experimentalized  on 
left  the  hands  of  the  operators,  the  limbs  hung  useless 
from  the  trunk  from  that  time  forward.  Worse  than 
useless,  I would  say  they  were  to  their  owner : their 
appendage  only  felt,  when  they  were  nightly,  and  often 
daily  as  well  as  nightly,  set  quivering  by  racking  pains 
that  made  the  sufferer  writhe  and  scream  from  excess 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


249 


of  agony.  This  constant  endurance  of  torture  continued 
without  alleviation  to  the  period  of  his  death.’’ 

Thus,  broken  in  body,  and  with  one  child  dead  in  his 
home,  Banim  was  declared  by  his  physicians  incurable. 
He  was  drawn  in  his  bath-chair  through  the  various 
places  of  interest  in  Paris.  His  daily  pleasures  wTere 
few;  and  when  the  day  was  fortunately  painless,  the 
night  came  on,  and  with  it  agony.  Often,  as  he  writhed 
beneath  his  tortures,  he  thrust  sharp -pointed  pins 
through  his  thighs,  as  if,  by  counter  tortures,  he  hoped 
to  check  the  pangs  that  came  involuntarily  upon  him. 

Still  he  attempted,  even  whilst  in  this  state,  to  con- 
tribute to  the  newspapers  and  magazines,  and  he  felt 
now,  as  he  had  felt  eleven  years  before,  when  he  wrote 
gayly  and  so  bravely  to  Michael — “By  the  life  of 
Pharaoh,  Sir,  if  I do  not  ply  and  tease  the  brain,  as 
wool-combers  tease  wool,  the  fire  should  go  out,  and 
the  spit  could  not  turn.” 

Of  the  various  pieces,  in  verse  and  prose,  contributed 
by  him  at  this  period  to  the  press,  the  following  is  a fair 
specimen,  and  first  appeared  in  The  Times  : — 

TO  THE  COLOSSAL  ELEPHANT 

ON  THE  SITE  OF  THE  BASTILLE. 

I know  not  why  they’ve  based  thee  here— 

But  unto  me  thou  art  a thought 
With  pity,  doubt,  and  sorrow  fraught— 

For  now,  and  future,  far  and  near, 

Because  no  warning  they  are  taught, 

Can  make  the  careless-cruel  fear. 


250 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


O’erawing  thought!  of  a giant  strength, 

Who  out  of  love  and  reason  took 
From  a pigmy  keeper  blows  and  spurns, 

And  slight  that  chills,  and  scorn  that  burns, 

And  bore  all  gently,  till  at  length 

Love  died,  and  reason  could  not  brook, 

Uncharmed  by  love,  one  other  day, 

The  baseness  of  a coward  sway  ; 

And  then  uprose  the  giant  Strength, 

And  round  his  keeper  did  enfold 
The  wreathings  of  his  mind,  and  crushed 
His  body  till  the  life-blood  rushed 

Thro’ joint  and  pore,  and  the  stronghold 
Of  his  weak  power  the  giant  Strength 
Did  trample  down — and  ’mid  its  stones 
Trampled  upon  his  tyrant’s  bones  ! 

John  Banim. 


Pai%  November  8th,  1834. 


Friends  gathered  around  him  in  Paris,  and  he  was 
happy  as  his  state  of  health  would  permit  ; but  his 
continued  prostration  alarmed  Michael,  who  tells  us — 
“ In  1834,  I wrote  to  the  brother  from  whom  I had 
been  so  long  separated,  urging  him  to  return  home ; 
and  I did  so  with  the  hope  that  tranquillity,  his  na- 
tive air,  and  the  attentions  of  his  kindred,  might  be 
more  beneficial  than  excitement  and  a foreign  climate.” 
When  Banim  received  this  letter  to  which  Michael 
here  refers,  he  was  happy  in  the  society  of  some  of  the 
most  distinguished  literary  men,  French  and  foreign, 
resident  in  Paris  ; but  there  was  no  certain  rest  or 
ease  from  his  bodily  sufferings,  and  the  “ si  gravis, 
brevis  : si  longus,  levis  ” of  Cicero  was  not  a true 
axiom  in  his  case.  He  felt  his  health  becoming  each 
day  more  weak ; and  thus  he  wrote  to  his  brother,  in 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


251 


reply  to  the  letter  advising  him  to  come  home  once 
more  to  his  native  place : — • 

“ Parts,  January  19 th.  1835. 

“ I got  your  letter,  my  dearest  Michael,  long  enough 
ago  to  have  replied  to  it  before  now.  Nothing  but  the 
want  of  power  has  kept  me  so  many  weeks  silent. 
How  could  I be  willingly  silent  to  it  ? 

“ I will  go  home  to  you,  and  to  the  grave  of — another  ; 
still,  I cannot  do  so,  so  directly  as  you  propose. 

“ Besides,  spring  will  be  better  than  the  present  sea- 
son, better  than  the  biting  January,  for  poor  cold  I.” 

Poor  fellow!  he  was  not,  however,  to  leave  France 
until  he  had  passed  through  another  and  most  bitter 
sorrow.  The  death  of  one  of  his  children,  a boy,  has 
been  already  mentioned;  he  had  now  two,  a girl  and 
a boy,  surviving  at  the  date  of  the  last  letter.  He 
loved  them  dearly,  and  none  knew  better  than  he  the 
tender,  holy  truth  expressed  in  those  lines  of  Martin 
Tupper,  which  teach  that — 

“ A babe  in  a house  is  a well-spring  of  pleasure,  a messenger  of  peace 
and  love ; 

A talent  of  trust — a loan  to  be  rendered  back  with  interest 

and  the  faces,  the  voices,  the  laughter  of  his  boy  and 
girl  had  cheered  him  in  many  a weary  hour,  and  now 
his  boy  was  about  to  be  snatched  from  his  arms  for 
ever.  “ Tell  us,”  we  said  to  Michael,  “ of  this  death, 
and  how  your  brother  withstood  the  shock  and 
Michael  wTrote  to  us  thus 


252 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BAN1M. 


“ His  daughter  was  now  (1835)  in  her  eighth  year, 
his  son  beyond  four.  That  dreadful  and  dangerous 
malady,  the  croup,  attacked  his  boy,  and  he  fell  a 
sacrifice  to  it.  I have  listened  to  him  for  hours  of  an 
evening,  after  his  return  home,  describing  the  noble 
qualities,  and  the  affection  of  this  child  to  him.  I have 
heard  him  tell  how  the  little  fellow  would  come  in 
from  his  play,  steal  gently  to  the  back  of  his  father's 
sick  sofa,  and  press  his  soft  lips  on  the  hand  that  lay 
listlessly  hanging  over.  The  first  intimation  of  the 
child's  presence  would  be  this  affectionate  salutation. 
And  when  the  father  turned  his  eyes  to  greet  the 
saluter,  then  there  was  a spring  into  the  parent’s  arms, 
and  a fond,  lengthened  embrace  between  them.  Other 
and  various  excellences  he  would  repeat,  when  he  lay 
helplessly  and  discoursed  of  his  affections.  Immediately 
after  the  date  of  the  last  letter,  this  attached,  fond  boy 
was  taken  from  him.  He  did  not  write  himself,  his  wife 
announced  to  me  the  fatality. 


11 1 January  27th,  1835. 

“ ‘ Dearest  Brother, — The  first  real  sorrow  I ever 
experienced  came  on  me  this  morning.  I have  lost  my 
noble  little  son  ; noble,  generous,  and  good-natured  as 
if  he  were  grown  up  ; and  no  doubt,  if  the  Lord  had 
spared  him,  he  would  have  done  honor  to  his  father’s 
name.  He  is,  I hope,  this  moment  communing  with 
your  sainted  mother. 

“ * I know  not  what  I write,  but  I had  rather  you 
should  learn  this  through  me  than  through  any  other 
channel. 

“ £ When  I am  more  composed  I will  tell  you  more 
about  him.  The  event  has  almost  killed  his  father ; 
their  affection  for  each  other  was  unbounded.'  ” 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


253 


Residence  in  Paris,  after  the  death  of  his  boy,  became 
painful  to  him.  His  life  there  had  been  gloomy,  and 
he  would  now  be  at  home,  amidst  old  scenes  and  faces, 
“with  memories  not  all  sad.”  And  yet  what  were 
these  memories  not  all  sad  ? The  dream-land  of  those 

days  when  he  wandered  with  Anne  T> ; the  lost 

love  ; the  dead  mistress  ; his  own  long  sickness  ; the 
debts  of  the  wild  days  ; a dead  mother  ; a broken, 
ruined  body;  fame  dimmed  as  it  shone  most  brightly; 
and  now  a forced  return  to  all  these  scenes.  Truly 
might  he  exclaim  of  memory: — 

“ To  me  she  tells  of  bliss  for  ever  lost ; 

Of  fair  occasions,  gone  for  ever  by  ; 

Of  hopes  too  fondly  nursed,  too  rudely  cross’d  ; 

Of  many  a cause  to  wish — yet  fear  to  die.” 

But  to  be  at  home,  to  be  at  Kilkenny,  was  henceforth 
his  constant  longing.  There  was  a beauty  in  the 
scenery,  a balm  in  the  air,  a charm  in  the  Nore, 
which  no  other  place  on  earth  could  now  supply  to 
him  ; and  he  thus  wrote  to  Michael,  explaining  his 
wishes  as  to  the  house  he  desired  to  secure  : — 

“ Paris,  April  30th.  1835. 

“ My  dear  Michael, — What  I require  is  this.  I must 
have  a little  garden,  not  overlooked,  for  with  eyes  on  me 
I could  not  enjoy  it.  Herein  paths  to  be,  or  afterwards 
so  formed  as  to  enable  three  persons  to  walk  abreast. 
If  not  paths,  grass-plats  formed  out  of  its  beds;  for  with 
the  help  of  your  neck  or  arm,  dear  Michael,  I want  to 
try  and  put  my  limbs  under  me.  This  is  the  reason  for 
my  last,  and  to  you,  perhaps,  strange  request ; but 


254 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


indeed  there  is  a reason,  connected  with  my  bodily  and 
mental  state,  for  all  the  previous  matters  to  be  sought 
for  in  my  contemplated  abode,  and  which  I have  so 
minutely  particularized. 

“If  possible,  I would  wish  my  little  house  to  have 
a sunny  aspect  ; sun  into  all  possible  windows  every 
day  that  the  glorious  material  god  shines.  I am  a 
shivering  being,  and  require,  and  rejoice  in,  his  invigo- 
rating rays  as  does  the  drooping  sickly  plant. 

“ If  this  little  house  could  be  within  view  of  our  Nore 
stream,  along  the  banks  of  which  you  and  I have  so 
often  bounded,  but  along  which  I shall  never  bound 
again,  it  would  enhance  my  pleasure. 

“I  will  begin  to  go  home  the  10th  of  the  next 
month  (May).  Traveling  is  to  me  a most  expensive 
and  tedious  process.  Every  league  of  the  road  will  take 
a shackle  off,  me.  My  mind  is  fixed  on  a little  sunny 
nook  in  Kilkenny,  where  I may  set  myself  down  and 
die  easily,  or  live  a little  longer  as  happily  as  I can.”  * 

* This  description  of  the  house  in  which  he  would  pass  his  future 
life  is  very  beautiful,  and  it  may  interest  some  readers  to  mark  the 
similarity  between  it  and  that  poet’s  home  which  Tennyson  has  so 
exquisitely  described  in  “ The  Gardener’s  Daughter  — 

‘•Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor  quite 
Beyond  it,  blooms  the  garden  that  I love. 

News  from  the  humming  city  comes  to  it 
In  sound  of  funeral  or  of  marriage  bells  ; 

And,  sitting  muffled  in  dark  leaves,  you  hear 
The  windy  clanging  of  the  minster-clock ; 

Although  between  it  and  the  garden  lies 
A league  of  grass,  wash’d  by  a slow  broad  stream, 

That,  stirr’d  with  languid  pulses  of  the  oar, 

Waves  all  its  lazy  lilies,  and  creeps  on, 

Barge-laden,  to  three  arches  of  a bridge 
Crown’d  with  the  minster-towers.” 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


255 


He  was  impatient,  as  we  have  stated,  to  leave  Paris, 
and  commence  his  homeward  journey;  and  so,  to  use 
the  words  of  Mrs.  Banim,  he  “bundled  everything,” 
and  started  for  Boulogne.  Even  here,  on  his  journey, 
his  invariable  attendant,  sickness,  pursued  him — Mrs. 
Banim  was  attacked  by  typhus  fever.  He  thus  an- 
nounces his  position  to  Michael : — 

“ Boulogne-sur-Mer,  May  20 Ih,  1835. 

“ My  dear  Michael, — I left  Paris  the  10th,  as  I told 
you  I should  do,  although  much  weakened  from  a regi- 
men to  arrest  throwing  up  blood,  which  happened  to 
me  some  weeks  before.  I arrived  here  the  13th,  and 
was  about  to  cross  to  England  the  16th,  when  my  poor 
Ellen  was  struck  down  by  typhus  fever,  which,  fastening 
on  a previous  cold,  has  so  inflamed  her  chest  and  side, 
that  I don’t  yet  know  if  she  is  to  be  spared  to  me.  At 
any  rate,  do  as  well  as  she  can,  I must  not  stir  for  a 
month  at  least.  God’s  will  be  done.  There  is  always 
something  to  be  grateful  for.  Had  Ellen  taken  ill  on 
the  road  from  Paris,  amongst  strangers,  instead  of  here, 
surrounded  by  real  affection,  how  much  more  must  I 
have  suffered. 

“Indeed,  from  men  and  women,  French  and  English, 
and  Irish,  in  Boulogne,  we  find  nothing  but  great 
kindness.” 

“ May  24 th. 

“ I am  glad  I did  not  send  this  yesterday.  Ellen  is 
better  to-day,  and  the  chances  are  all  in  her  favor.” 

As  “Ellen  is  better  to-day,  and  the  chances  are  all 
in  her  favor,”  and  as  he  is  on  the  road  towards  home — 
towards  Kilkenny,  with  the  garden  not  overlooked,  and 


25G 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


the  flowers,  and  the  sunshine,  and  the  sparkling,  winding, 
shady  Nore,  and  with  the  soft  warm  wind  of  summer 
playing  around  him,  and  with  kind  English  and  French 
friends  smiling  by  him,  and  helping  him  to  restore  Ellen, 
he  must  take  up  his  pen,  and  he  writes,  and  incloses,  in 
the  last  quoted  letter  to  Michael — 

“ THE  CALL  FROM  HOME. 

“ From  home,  and  hearth,  and  garden  it  resounds, 

From  chamber,  stair,  and  all  the  old  house  bounds, 

And  from  our  boyhood’s  old  play-grounds. 

“And  from  my  native  skies  and  airs,  which  you 
Tell  me  must  nerve  my  wretched  form  anew, 

Breathing  forth  hopes  of  life,  alas ! how  few. 

“ And  from  the  humble  chapel  path  we’ve  trod 
So  often  morn  and  eve,  to  worship  God, 

Or  kneel,  boy  penitents,  beneath  His  rod. 

“ And  from  its  humble  graveyard,  where  repose 
Our  grandsire’s  ashes  and  our  mother’s  woes, 

That  saint,  who  suffered  with  a smile  to  life’s  last  close. 

“ Brother,  I come  ; you  summon,  and  I come  : 

From  love  like  yours  I never  more  will  roam — 

Yours  is  the  call  from  brother  and  from  home. 

“ From  the  world’s  glare  and  struggle,  loving  some 
And  hating  none  ; to  share  my  mother’s  tomb, 

Hoping  to  share  her  bliss,  brother,  I come.’’ 


CHAPTER  VII. 


THE  RETURN  HOME — LONDON:  OLD  FRIENDS LINES  TO  BANIM 

BY  THE  LATE  THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY DUBLIN : MICHAEL 

BANIM’S  DESCRIPTION  OF  JOHNS  APPEARANCE  AND  SUFFERINGS 

WONDERFUL  CHEERFULNESS  OF  MIND:  HEROIC  COURAGE 

KINDNESS  OF  IRISH  FRIENDS “ DAMON  AND  PYTHIAS  ” PLAYED 

FOR  BANIM’S  BENEFIT  AT  HAWKINS*  STREET  THEATRE ARRIVAL 

IN  KILKENNY TAKES  POSSESSION  OF  WINDGAP  COTTAGE:  LIFE 

IN  THE  COTTAGE:  THE  “ SHANDERADAN  ** “ THE  MAYOR  OF 

WINDGAP  ’*  DRAMATIZED,  AND  PLAYED  FOR  BANIM*S  BENEFIT, 
IN  KILKENNY,  BY  GARDINER’S  COMPANY — -LITERARY  LABOR — • 
QUARREL  WITH  MESSRS.  GUNN  AND  CAMERON,  PROPRIETORS  OF 
“ THE  DUBLIN  PENNY  JOURNAL : ” EANIM’s  INDIGNANT  LETTER 

TO  THEM DISTINGUISHED  VISITORS  AT  WINDGAP  COTTAGE 

banim’s  ENTHUSIASM  WHEN  THE  EARL  OF  MULGRAVE,  THE 
LORD  LIEUTENANT,  VISITED  KILKENNY:  THE  “ SHANDERADAN  ** 
DECORATED,  AND  BEARING  THE  INSCRIPTION,  “ MULGRAVE  FOR 

EVER  !”■ A PENSION  GRANTED DESCRIPTION  OF  A DAY  WITH 

BANIM “ FATHER  CONNELL**  COMMENCED VISIT  FROM  GERALD 

GRIFFIN:  HIS  LETTER  TO  MICHAEL  BANIM THE  STAGE  DARK- 

ENING ERE  THE  CURTAIN  FALLS:  THE  TREE  DYING  FROM  THE 
TOP. 

When  Mrs.  Banim  was  pronounced  by  her  physician 
sufficiently  recovered  to  bear  the  fatigue  of  traveling, 
the  poor,  broken  pilgrim  of  health  commenced  his  home- 
ward journey. 

He  rested  some  days  in  London,  and  the  old  familiar 
faces,  the  friends  of  earlier,  and,  amidst  all  their  sorrows. 


258 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


brighter  days,  gathered  around  his  sofa.  Amongst 
these  friends,  the  late  Thomas  Haynes  Bayly  was  one 
of  Banim’s  most  attentive  and  constant  visitors. 

All  through  life,  Bayly  was  on  terms  of  intimacy  or 
friendship  with  most  of  the  literary  men  of  his  time  ; 
and  we  find  letters  addressed  to  him  from  Moore, 
Rogers,  Theodore  Hood,  Crofton  Croker,  Galt,  and 
others ; but  John  Banim  was  his  dearest  friend. 

It  was  after  he  had  called  to  see  his  sick  friend,  thus 
returning  from  France,  that  Bayly  wrote  the  following 
lines  : — 


i. 

“I  saw  him  on  his  couch  of  pain, 

And  when  I heard  him  speak, 

It  was  of  Hope  long  nursed  in  vain, 
And  tears  stole  down  his  cheek. 
He  spoke  of  honors  early  won, 
Which  youth  could  rarely  boast ; 
Of  high  endeavors  well  begun, 

But  prematurely  lost. 


ir. 

“ I saw  him  on  a brighter  day, 

Among  the  first  spring  flowers  ; 

Despairing  thoughts  had  pass’d  away, 
He  spoke  of  future  hours  ; 

He  spoke  of  health,  of  spirits  freed 
To  take  a noble  aim  ; 

Of  efforts  that  were  sure  to  lead 
To  fortune  and  to  fame ! 

in. 

“ They  bear  him  to  a genial  land, 

The  cradle  of  the  weak  ; 

Oh  may  it  nerve  the  feeble  hand, 

And  animate  the  cheek ! 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


259 


Oh  may  he,  when  we  meet  again, 

Those  flattering  hopes  recall, 

And  smiling  say — ‘ They  were  not  vain, 

Fve  realized  them  all  V v 

London,  even  with  friends  like  Bayly,  could  now  offer 
nothing  to  the  poor,  broken,  world-weary  man,  com- 
parable to  the  quiet  beauty  of  the  humble  resting-place 
which  his  fancy  had  created,  and  which  he  hoped  to 
discover  amidst  the  green  and  leafy  scenes  of  his  native 
place.  He  quitted  London  for  ever,  and  arrived  in 
Dublin  at  the  close  of  July,  1835. 

“When,”  writes  Michael  Banim  to  us,  “I  hastened 
up  to  Dublin  in  August,  1835,  to  meet  my  brother,  I 
could  not  at  once  recognize  the  companion  of  my  boy- 
hood ; the  young  man,  who,  thirteen  years  before,  had 
been  in  rude  health,  robust  of  body,  and  in  full  vigor, 
could  scarcely  be  identified  with  the  remnant  I beheld. 

“ I entered  his  room  unannounced.  I found  him  laid 
listlessly  on  a sofa,  his  useless  limbs  at  full  length — his 
open  hand  was  on  the  arm  of  the  couch,  and  his  sunken 
cheek  resting  on  his  pillow.  I looked  down  on  a 
meagre,  attenuated,  almost  white-headed  old  man.  I 
spoke ; my  voice  told  him  I was  near.  He  started,  and 
leaning  on  his  elbow,  he  looked  eagerly  into  my  face. 
His  eyes  were  unlike  what  they  had  been  ; there  was 
an  appearance  of  effort  in  his  fixed  gaze  I had  not  seen 
before.  I had  been  prepared  to  meet  a change,  but  not 
prepared  for  such  a change  as  was  now  apparent.  We 
were  not  long,  however,  recognizing  each  other,  and 
renewing  our  old  love. 

“When  we  thus  met,  my  brother  was  the  wreck  of  his 
former  self.  He  was  unable  to  change  his  position  ; 


2G0 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


dependent  altogether  on  extraneous  help.  To  remove 
from  one  place  to  another,  he  should  clasp  with  both 
his  hands  the  neck  of  the  person  aiding  him,  and  sitting 
on  the  arms  of  his  assistant,  be  carried  wherever  it  was 
necessary  to  bear  him.  He  should  be  conveyed  in  this 
manner  from  the  bed  to  the  sofa,  and  from  the  sofa 
elsewhere.  It  required  expertness  more  than  strength 
to  convey  him  safely — and  when  one  unaccustomed  to 
be  his  carrier  undertook  the  task,  his  apprehension  of 
falling  affected  him  strongly.  His  extremities  hung 
uselessly  from  the  trunk,  and  were  always  cold ; it 
appeared  as  if  the  vital  warmth  had  no  circulation 
through  them  ; and  when  out  of  bed,  his  legs  and 
thighs  should  be  wrapped  closely  in  rugs  and  furs,  or 
the  heat  of  the  upper  portion  of  the  body  would  pass 
away  through  them. 

“No  day  passed  without  its  term  of  suffering.  For 
two  or  at  most  three  hours  after  retiring  to  bed,  he 
might,  with  the  assistance  of  opiates,  forget  himself  in 
sleep.  He  was  sure  to  awake,  however,  after  a short 
repose,  screaming  loud  from  the  torture  he  suffered  in 
his  limbs  and  along  his  spine — the  attack  continuing 
until  exhaustion  followed,  succeeded  by,  not  sleep,  but 
a lethargy  of  some  hours’  continuance.  This  was  not 
an  occasional  visitation,  but  was  renewed  night  after 
night.  It  was  not  during  the  hours  of  darkness  only 
that  he  suffered — frequently  the  pains  came  on  in  the 
daytime — after  he  endured  them  all  night  long,  if  the 
weather,  lowered,  or  the  atmosphere  pressed  heavily, 
they  were  present  in  the  day  : to  say  nothing  of  his 
decrepitude,  few  of  his  hours  were  free  from  agony. 

“ The  account  of  one  day  and  night  will  answer  for 
every  succeeding  day  and  night ; the  only  difference, 
a greater  or  less  degree  of  torture  On  one  occasion. 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


261 


after  his  establishment  at  Kilkenny,  I visited  him  about 
noon,  and  found  him,  as  at  the  same  hour  was  often  the 
case,  languid  and  drooping  after  the  night  and  morning. 
With  a melancholy  smile  he  said,  as  he  took  my  hand, 
4 My  dear  Michael,  I can  be  food  for  the  worms  any 
time  I please.  If  I wish  for  death,  I need  only  stay 
abed,  and  resign  myself  to  what  must  inevitably  fol- 
low. If  I make  no  effort  against  my  malady,  all  will  be 
over  in  three  or  four  days.  I will  not  act  thus,  however, 
— I will  live  as  long  as  God  pleases.  But  come,  come, 
my  honest  fellow,  let  us  talk  of  something  cheerful — • 
cheerful  conversation  is  a bairn  to  me.  The  sun  is 
banishing  the  clouds  ; we  will  have  a ride  together  in 
the  Shanderadan,  and  look  about  us,  and  talk  of  some- 
thing else  besides  my  crippled  body.5 

44  In  the  intervals  between  one  attack  of  pain  and 
another,  and  when  recovered  from  the  consequent  ex- 
haustion, the  spirit  of  the  enduring  man  seemed  to 
rebound,  as  it  were,  from  its  prostration. 

44  He  cheered  up — his  brow  relaxed  from  its  com- 
pression, his  eye  brightened,  and  a smile  displaced  the 
contortion  of  his  lip  ; and  he  enjoyed  with  a high  relish 
everything  from  which  he  could  extract  a temporary 
gleam  of  pleasure  : anything  that  could  induce  a forget- 
fulness— the  mere  negative  good — the  absence  of  actual 
suffering  — was  an  enjoyment,  and  he  became  even 
mirthful. 

In  the  intermission  of  extreme  illness,  his  conversation, 
if  I do  not  judge  partially,  was  very  attractive.  His 
youthful  sense  of  nature's  beauties  would  return,  and  he 
would  become  enthusiastic  as  he  pointed  out  favorite 
bits  of  landscape.  He  would  indulge  in  pleasant  badin- 
age, he  would  discourse  of  books  and  theories,  or  he 
would  sketch  vividly  the  varieties  of  human  character 


262 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


lie  liad  encountered  through,  life.  It  was  a blessing  to 
him  he  had  the  power  to  forget,  and  to  make  his  com- 
panions forget  also,  that  he  was  enjoying  no  more  than  a 
short  vacation.” 

In  Dublin,  as  in  London,  old  and  new  friends  gathered 
around  Banim.  Literary  friends — friends  of  the  early 
days  of  artist -life,  came  to  him  ; and  the  Viceroy,  the 
Earl  of  Mulgrave,  was  most  attentive  and  thoughtful  in 
his  endeavors  to  aid  the  poor,  broken  sufferer. 

As  a graceful  means  of  increasing  his  resources,  it  was 
resolved  that  Banim’s  fellow-countrymen  should  be  in- 
vited to  show  their  appreciation  of  his  genius  by  attend- 
ing a performance  for  his  benefit,  which  it  was  proposed 
should  take  place  at  the  Theatre  Boyal,  Hawkins’  Street; 
and  accordingly  the  following  announcement  appeared 
in  all  the  Dublin  newspapers  of  Thursday,  July  16th, 
1835  : — ■ 

“ Theatre  Boyal. — Under  the  immediate  patronage  of 
His  Excellency  the  Lord  Lieutenant.  Mr.  John  Banim, 
the  author  of  ‘Damon  and  Pythias,’  ‘Tales  by  the 
O’Hara  Family,’  and  several  other  National  Tales  and 
Dramas,  being  now  in  Dublin,  his  friends  deem  this  a 
fitting  opportunity  to  call  upon  his  fellow-countrymen  to 
testify  the  respect  and  admiration  in  which  they  hold  his 
talents.  The  Theatre  will  open  for  this  purpose  on 
Tuesday  Evening,  July  21st,  when  will  be  performed,  for 
his  benefit,  ‘The  Sergeant’s  Wife,’  dramatized  by  Mr. 
Banim  from  one  of  his  own  Tales,  and  ‘ The  Sister  of 
Charity,’  also  written  by  him.  There  will  be  a Comic 
Interlude,  with  a variety  of  other  Entertainments.  The 
particulars  in  the  bills  of  the  day.  Tickets  to  be  had  at 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


203 


all  the  Newspaper  Offices  ; of  Mr.  G.  R.  Mulvany,  Secre- 
tary to  the  Committee,  24  Upper  Sackville  Street ; and 
of  Mr.  Eyre,  at  the  Box  Office,  where  places  may  be 
secured.” 

The  entire  press  supported  this  attempt  to  assist  our 
sufferer,  and  the  tone  of  all  their  appeals  was  as  in  the 
following,  from  “ The  Morning  Register,”  of  Friday, 
July  17th,  1835 — the  day  following  that  in  which  the 
benefit  was  first  advertised. 

“Mr.  Banim. 

“ It  does  not  surprise,  but  it  affords  us,  nevertheless,  infinite  gratifi- 
cation to  find,  that  even  already  there  is  a stir,  and  a great  one,  for 
our  suffering,  but,  thank  God!  not  forlorn  countryman.  High  and 
worthy  names,  in  some  number,  were  put  upon  the  box  sheet  yester- 
day. The  press,  of  all  colors,  lends  its  willing  and  creditable  aid. 
We  shall,  then,  have  a bumper ; but  let  it  be  a bumper.  Posterity 
will  weave  garlands  for  the  grave  of  John  Banim,  and  while  they  pay 
the  merited  tribute  to  his  exalted  genius,  let  there  be  in  their  memory 
nothing  giving  them  ground  to  cast  the  reproach  of  a base  and  un- 
feeling niggardlyness  on  those  who  dwelt  in  one  town  with  him,  and 
were  aware  of  his  misfortunes,  in  July,  1835.” 

And  the  following  day  the  same  journal  thus  declares 
for  him : — 


“ Mr.  Banim— Debenture  Tickets. 

“ There  are  over  one  hundred  debenture  tickets  on  our  theatre. 
These,  we  understand,  are  for  the  most  part  sold — and  their  action, 
night  after  night,  on  the  profits  of  the  concern,  help  to  explain  why 
it  is  running  fast  to  total  ruin.  It  would  be  lamentable,  we  had 
almost  said  scandalous,  if  they  were  suffered  to  interfere  with  the 
receipts  of  Tuesday  night.  We  are  told  that  some  of  the  ordinary 
vendors  of  these  tickets  have  come  to  the  laudable  resolution  of  sus- 
pending their  sale,  at  least  on  this  sacred  occasion.  We  hope  an 
observance,  so  deserving  from  its  generosity  of  the  highest  commen- 


2G1 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


dation,  will  become  general,  or,  if  it  do  not,  that  there  will,  at  least, 
be  few  willing  to  go  in  a cheap,  and  sort  of  back-stairs  way  to  poor 
Banim’s  benefit.  « The  prospects  of  a bumper  are  increasing  ; but  let 
there  be  no  relaxation  in  the  efforts  of  the  friends  of  genius.  Much 
must  be  done  before  that  which  is  intended  as  an  advantage  is 
secured  from  the  risk  of  becoming  a source  of  new  embarrassment. 
In  plain  words,  to  cover  the  very  expenses  will  require  an  exertion 
in  the  present  state  of  the  town.” 

The  performance  took  place  on  Tuesday,  July  21st. 
The  Lord  Lieutenant  attended  ; the  house  was  filled 
by  a rapturous,  overflowing  audience  ; Banim  reclined 
on  a sofa  in  a private  box,  surrounded  by  a few  of  his 
oldest  and  firmest  friends ; and  the  following  address, 
written  by  George  F.  Mulvany,  Esq.,  was  spoken  by 
one  of  the  performers  : — 

“ This  night  to  welcome  to  his  native  land 
A long-lost  brother — and  to  grasp  his  hand, 

In  friendly  brotherhood,  as  warm,  as  true, 

As  erst  a ‘ Damon  or  a Pythias’  knew  ; 

To-night  to  cry  caed  milefailthe  home, 

I see  bright  eyes,  and  beating  bosoms  come  ! 

I see  the  fair,  still  ever  first  to  breathe 

Soft  word  of  welcome,  and  still  first  to  wreathe 

For  brows  victorious  in  the  field  of  fame — 

Or  warrior,  or  poet — still  the  same — 

The  laurel  crown — the  dearly,  toil-won  prize  ; 

Ever  most  treasured  when  their  sunny  eyes 
Smile  on  its  freshness.  I behold  around 
The  noble  and  the  brave!  who  too  have  found 
The  while  from  state’s  or  war’s  high  trammels  freed 
A pleasing  pride  to  win  the  author's  meed, 

And  still  a crowd — perchance  to  fame  unknown, 

But  yet  with  hearts  which  Irish  bosoms  own — 

All  here  assembled,  with  soul-beaming  smile, 

To  welcome  Banim  to  his  own  green  isle. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


265 


“What!  though  from  country  and  from  kindred  forced, 

From  all  the  magic  ties  of  home  divorced, 

In  other  realms  the  author’s  lot  be  cast, 

Where  faithful  still — true  ‘patriot  to  the  last, 

To  add  new  glories  to  his  country’s  name, 

Has  been  his  beacon  on  the  path  of  fame. 

What!  though  his  course  be  one  of  anxious  toil — 

Though  his  lips  fluid,  like  the  fatal  oil 
That  feeds  the  brightness  of  his  midnight  lamp, 

When  his  brain  burns — though  his  brow  be  damp  ; 

Exhale  too  oft — too  swiftly  in  the  bright 
And  rapt  conceptions  of  its  spirit’s  light ; 

Sapping  the  system,  till  the  treacherous  stealth 
Drives  him  a pilgrim  to  the  shrine  of  health — 

Bidding  him  wander  back  renerved  to  be 
At  life’s  true  spring — the  scenes  of  infancy  ? 

Though  dark  clouds  low’r,  must  not  the  gladd’ning  sight 
Of  friends  assembled,  as  around  to-night, 

Repay  in  part  the  grateful  tribute  due, 

And  bid  Hope’s  flow’rets  blossom  forth  anew  ! 

So  may  it  prove  to  him,  whose  ev’ry  hope 
Hath  been  concentred  in  the  patriot  scope 
Of  country’s  cause — whose  labor  to  unfold 
Th’  historic  records  of  her  days  of  old, 

To  draw  oblivion’s  dusky  veil  aside, 

And  paint  his  country’s  claims  with  filial  pride — 

To  him  whom  homeward  now  a soft  voice  calls, 

Th’  awakened  echo  of  O’Hara’s  halls  ; 

There,  in  the  magic  of  his  native  hearth, 

To  feel,  fresh  springing  in  Antean  birth, 

New  strength  to  cope  in  Herculean  strife 
With  toils  and  care  that  track  the  poet’s  life, 

To  work  afresh  the  unexhausted  store 
Of  Irish  character  and  Irish  lore — 

Rich  mine  of  hidden  wealth,  of  unwrought  ore — 

To  dare  new  labors  in  his  country’s  cause, 

And  win  reward — and  impetus  in  your  applause  !” 

Back  lie  went,  in  the  month  of  September,  to  his 

longed-for  home.  He  was  so  worn  and  weak,  that  he 

12 


266 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


could  only  travel  by  post-chaise,  and  the  journey  form 
Dublin  to  Kilkenny  required  three  days  in  its  comple- 
tion. He  went  first  to  the  old  house,  where  so  many 
years  of  hope,  of  dreaming,  of  love,  of  pain,  and  of 
memories  44  bitter-sweet,”  were  passed. 

The  44 little  octagon  table”  in  the  “sanctum  sancto- 
rum” of  his  father,  with  the  dear  mother,  and  Michael, 
and  the  schoolmaster,  and  the  sister  around  it,  reading 
his  praises,  and  weaving  the  laurel  crown,  were  the 
dreams  of  the  dead,  cold,  forgotten  past,  — and  now 
he  came  to  the  grave  of  all  those  things,  and  even 
hope  itself  was  dead  ; and  nothing  was  in  memory  but 
pain  and  woe — nothing  in  the  future  but  rest  which 
was  poverty,  and  life  which  was  worse  than  death,  in 
its  pains  and  its  inutility. 

Early  in  the  month  of  September,  1835,  John  Banim, 
accompanied  by  his  wife  and  daughter,  and  by  his 
brother  Michael,  arrived  in  Kilkenny,  and  his  fellow- 
townsmen  received  him  warmly  and  kindly.  They 
assembled  to  consider  the  best  method  of  showing  their 
regard  for  him,  and  their  appreciation  of  his  genius  ; 
and  after  some  debate,  they  resolved,  unanimously,  to 
present  to  him  the  following  address: — 

“Address  from  the  Citizens  of  Kilkenny 

TO  JOHN  BANIM,  ESQ., 

AUTHOR  OF  4 THE  o’HARA  TALES,’  ETC. 

“ Sib, — Influenced  by  personal  regard,  and  by  that 
esteem  which  your  talents  have  won,  even  in  far  distant 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


267 


lands,  your  fellow-citizens  hail  with  sincere  pleasure 
your  arrival  amongst  them,  though  that  pleasure  is  ac- 
companied by  the  regret  that  your  health  is  not  such  as 
the  desires  of  your  countrymen  would  have  it ; but  they 
trust  that  native  scenes  and  air  shall  tend  to  your  res- 
toration, and  that,  ere  long,  a fostering  legislature  shall 
extend  to  you  that  liberal  aid  which  a good  and  wise 
government  is  ever  ready  to  bestow  upon  distinguishd 
literary  worth. 

“Your  fellow-citizens  have  resolved  to  offer  to  you 
some  testimony  of  that  respect  which  native  and  well- 
directed  talents  ever  merit — respect  due  from  every 
Irishman  who  recollects  that  your  writings  have  por- 
trayed his  country  in  the  colors  of  truth — delineated, 
without  concealment  or  exaggeration,  its  national  char- 
acter— sketched  its  peasantry  as  they  really  are,  placing 
their  virtues  in  relief,  and  tracing  their  misfortunes  and 
their  crimes  to  the  true  source  whence  both  spring — 
showing  this  country  to  the  sister-kingdom  as  it  really 
is,  and  begetting  there  commiseration  for  its  sufferings, 
and  esteem  for  its  social  virtues  and  ennobling  qualities, 
which  centuries  of  wrong  and  bondage  have  shrouded, 
but  not  entombed. 

“ As  citizens  of  Kilkenny,  your  claims  come  still  more 
forcibly  upon  their  esteem.  Your  pen  has  preserved 
many  of  the  beautiful  localities  in  and  around  this  city — 
given  new  charms  to  most  of  its  popular  legends,  and 
delineated,  with  truth  and  accuracy,  many  of  its  original 
characters,  blending  the  charms  of  truth  with  the  crea- 
tions of  a powerful  fancy,  and  directing  all  to  the  noble 
purpose  of  elevating  the  national  character,  and  vindi- 
cating a too  long  neglected  and  oppressed  land. 

“ The  citizens  of  Kilkenny,  therefore,  hope  that  you 
will  accept  of  the  token  of  your  countrymen’s  regard 


268 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BAN1M. 


which  accompanies  this  address,  and  they  venture  to 
express  their  ardent  wish  that  you  may  live  to  use  it 
in  an  advanced  and  honorable  old  age,  with  bodily 
powers  then  as  vigorous  as  is  that  intellect  which  has 
won  you  the  proud  distinction  of  fame,  conferred  an 
honor  on  Kilkenny,  and  an  important  benefit  upon 
Ireland. 

“ Signed,  for  their  fellow-citizens,  by 

“C.  James,  Chairman , 

“R.  Cane,  M.R.C.S.,  Secretary” 

This  address  was  written  by  Dr.  Cane,  and  was  en- 
grossed on  satin,  and  was  presented  to  Banim  with 
a silver  snuffbox,  containing  in  it  a subscription  of  £85. 
The  snuffbox  bore  the  following  inscription: — 

“this  box,  containing  a token  of  regard 

AND  ESTEEM  FOR  HIS  TALENTS, 

WAS  PRESENTED  TO 

THE  AUTHOR  OF  1 THE  O’HARA  TALES, * 

BY  HIS  FELLOW-CITIZENS, 

AT  KILKENNY. — SEPTEMBER,  1835.” 

Banim  thus  replied  to  the  address  of  his  fellow-citi- 
zens : — 

“ My  dear  Sirs, — With  a son’s  deep  affection  I re- 
turned to  my  mother-land  — with  a child’s  delight  I 
re-entered  my  native  city;  and  from  the  moment  that 
I touched  Irish  ground,  after  attentively  regarding, 
during  many  years,  other  countries,  my  mind  has  been 
gradually  and  irresistibly  impressed  with  the  proud  and 
happy  conviction,  that  among  strangers  Ireland  is  at 
present  ignorantly,  and,  I may  add,  presumptuously 
underrated,  and  that  to  no  country  that  I have  seen  is 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


269 


she,  in  my  humble  opinion,  inferior  — except,  alas!  in 
the  disunion,  and  in  the  consequent  poverty,  misery, 
and  crime  caused  by  the  born-blindness  of  those  who, 
unfortunately,  cannot  perceive  that  their  own  proper 
interests  are  naturally,  derivatively,  and  inevitably  iden- 
tified with  hers.  Superior  to  any  other  country  I am 
not  enthusiastic  enough  to  wish  to  make  her;  but,  in 
some  instances,  she  has  made  herself  so;  yes,  in  the 
social  and  domestic  relations — in  that  glorious  quality 
which  we  all  agree  to  call  heart ; and,  taking  one  class 
with  another,  in  true  urbanity  of  manners — and  of  good 
manners,  too — we  may,  although  her  sons,  safely  venture 
such  an  assertion. 

“ All  this  you  may  call  the  exaggerated  glee  of  a boy 
sent  away  to  his  school,  and  now  asked  home  to  spend 
his  holidays.  I will,  however,  hazard  another  remark, 
which  perhaps  may  sound  even  more  like  flattery  to 
you,  and  more  like  home-prejudice  on  my  part.  No 
matter,  this  it  is:  That  of  any  city  or  town  of  Kilkenny’s 
population  and  resources  — considering  it  also  as  an 
inland  city — it  has  not  yet  been  my  chance  to  have 
observed  one  equal  in  beauty  of  scenic  appearance,  in 
the  pervading  intelligence  of  its  citizens,  in  unostenta- 
tious morality,  and,  above  all,  in  public  and  private 
charity,  to  my  own  dear  native  place.  As  to  the  flattering 
mention  made  by  you  of  my  Tales,  I beg  to  say  that  they 
were  inspired  simply  by  a devoted  love  of  our  country, 
and  by  an  indignant  wish  to  convince  her  slanderers, 
and  in  some  slight  degree  at  least  to  soften  the  hearts  of 
her  oppressors;  although  that,  in  writing  in  her  cause  to 
other  nations,  I saw  the  necessity  of  endeavoring,  cau- 
tiously and  laboriously,  to  make  fiction  the  vehicle  of 
fact ; and  while  thus,  for  the  first  time,  called  upon  to 
reply  to  compliments  paid  to  me  as  the  writer  of  these 


270 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


volumes,  I cannot  hesitate  to  mention  that  a consider- 
able portion  of  the  success  of  some  of  the  stories  they 
contain  is  attributable  to  the  assistance  of  a dear  and 
respected  brother. 

“ My  dear  Sirs, — I return  through  you,  to  my  fellow- 
citizens,  my  proudly-grateful  acknowledgments  of  their 
tasteful  as  well  as  munificent  present ; and  for  your 
and  their  kind  wishes  for  my  continued  possession  of  it, 
I also  beg  leave  to  offer  my  heartfelt  thanks,  assured 
that  no  spot  on  earth  can  so  much  contribute  to  the  re- 
establishment of  my  health  as  that  of  our  unique 
Kilkenny. 

“ Allow  me  to  subjoin  that  upon  this,  the  earliest  occa- 
sion when  I have  had  a fitting  opportunity  to  express 
my  sense  of  national  kindness,  I hope  I may  avail  myself 
of  it  to  remind  you  that,  in  the  beautiful  though  half- 
depopulated  metropolis  of  our  Ireland,  I have,  on  my  way 
here  to  you,  experienced  friendships  and  services  such 
as  even  you  could  not  have  excelled,  and  that  I now 
anxiously  request  my  numerous  Dublin  creditors,  to 
whom,  one  and  all,  I own  myself  a bankrupt  in  gratitude, 
to  accept  this  passing  allusion  as  part-payment  of  my 
deep  debt  to  them.  And  again  I pray  you  to  allow  me  a 
parting  word.  In  Dublin,  as  well  as  here,  flowers  of 
every  tint  of  the  political  parterre  have  been  conde- 
scendingly wrought  into  a little  holiday  garland  for  a 
very  humble  brow  ; and  may  I not,  therefore,  take  the 
liberty  of  asking  you,  is  not  this  a slight  proof  at  least 
that  Irishmen  of  all  opinions  can  unite  in  recogniz- 
ing through  the  medium  of  no  matter  how  unmeriting 
an  occasion,  that  principle,  of  the  perfect  and  uni- 
versal establishment  of  which  we  all  stand  so  much 
in  need — namely,  the  great  and  glorious  principle  of 
nationality ! 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


271 


“ I remain,  my  dear  Sirs,  and  my  dear  fellow-citizens, 
with  profound  respect  and  esteem,  your  faithful  humble 
servant,  “ John  Banim. 

To  Christopher  James,  Esq.,  and  Robert  Cane,  Esq.,  M.R.C.S,” 

Thus  was  Banim  received  by  the  people  amongst 
whom  he  had  passed  his  boyhood ; and  as  the  words  of 
the  address  told  him  of  their  appreciation  of  his  genius, 
of  their  pride  in  his  fame,  of  their  sympathy  in  his  sor- 
rows, the  brave,  strong  heart  must  have  grown  bright 
once  more,  as  in  the  old  times  when  the  battle  of  life 
was  as  nothing  but  a thing  to  rouse  every  faculty,  with 
no  doubt  or  pause — when  hope  was  too  weak  a term  to 
express  the  knowledge  of  certain  success  — when  to 
secure  success  required  but  work  and  thought;  and  then, 
with  John  Banim,  work  and  thought  made  up  the  wThole 
sum  of  life,  with  all  joys  and  griefs  centred  in  them. 

We  asked  Michael  Banim  to  tell  us  the  story  of  his 
brother’s  return  ; and  of  John’s  first  months  of  the  new 
life  in  Kilkenny  he  writes  thus  : — 

“ John  was  received,  in  the  old  house  where  he  was 
born,  by  the  remaining  members  of  his  family — not  now, 
as  on  his  last  visit,  to  boast  of  his  hopes  and  aspirations, 
but  to  tell  the  tale  of  his  wreck  and  failure.  When  I 
saw  him  in  the  old  room,  where  we  had  been  all  assem- 
bled together  thirteen  years  before,  giving  credit  to  the 
bright  visions  of  prosperity  and  distinction  he  then 
described  as  in  store  for  him,  I could  scarcely  regret 
that  his  mother  was  no  longer  with  us  to  witness  the 
present  contrast. 


272 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


“ After  some  preliminary  arrangements,  the  object  of 
our  solicitude  was  established  in  a suburban  cottage 
close  by  the  road  leading  to  and  from  Dublin.  This 
cottage  was  on  a height  above  our  river,  at  the  outlet 
called  Windgap,  and  the  scene  of  one  of  the  tales  by 
‘The  O’Hara  Family.*  After  a short  residence  here, 
the  neighbors  knew  him  sotto  voce  as  ‘the  Mayor  of 
Windgap/ — the  title  of  the  tale  I have  referred  to. 
There  were  at  this  cottage  dry  air,  as  much  sun  as  any 
other  spot  was  favored  with,  the  view  of  green  fields, 
and  from  one  of  the  windows  a glimpse  of  our  crystal 
Nore,  wending  through  a beautiful  valley.  These  rec- 
ommendations, joined  to  seclusion  from  observation, 
were  desirable,  and  guided  the  choice  of  ‘Windgap 
Cottage*  as  the  future  abode  of  the  ailing  resident. 
t “ There  was  a slight  inconvenience,  however,  which  to 
another  would  have  been  trivial  in  the  extreme,  but 
which  annoyed  my  brother  to  some  extent. 

“In  the  spring  of  1836,  the  occupant  of  Windgap 
Cottage  set  to  work  at  the  formation  of  a flower  gar- 
den outside  his  parlor  window ; and,  when  the 
weather  permitted,  he  sat  without  the  doors,  propped 
in  his  Bath  chair,  superintending  the  operations  of  his 
man -of -all -work  as  he  planted  shrubs  and  flowers, 
laid  down  sods,  and  formed  broad  sanded  walks,  in  con- 
tact with  which  the  invalid  still  hoped  to  place  his 
feet.  The  Dublin  road  ran  outside  the  high  boundary- 
wall  of  the  enclosure,  and  as  the  public  coaches  passed 
to  and  from  the  metropolis,  those  seated  on  the  outside 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


273 


could  look  down  into  the  little  garden.  My  brother 
soon  discovered  that  he  had  become  an  object  of  curi- 
osity and  comment ; regarded  as  one  of  the  shows  of 
the  road,  exhibited  by  the  driver  for  the  entertainment 
of  his  fare.  He  could  notice  the  coachman’s  whip  point- 
ing him  out — the  exhibitor,  at  the  same  time,  turning 
his  head  from  one  passenger  to  another,  as  he  an- 
swered their  queries  ; and  then  there  was  the  stretching 
of  necks  for  a view,  and  comments  going  the  round  of 
the  coach. 

“ On  one  occasion  he  overheard  a portion  of  the  dia- 
logue passing  from  the  rear  to  the  front  of  the  vehicle. 

“ £ He’ll  never  see  the  bushes  an  inch  higher/  said 
a rear  passenger.  ‘He’s  booked  for  the  whole  way, 
and  no  mistake/  responded  the  coachman,  chirping  to 
his  horses,  and  smacking  his  wTliip  artistically,  in  satis- 
factory appreciation  of  his  own  wit.  A laugh  went 
round  as  the  coach  drove  on.  It  showed  a weakness 
of  mind  in  the  subject  of  the  jocularity  to  be  so  sensible 
to  ridicule;  but,  for  the  future,  he  never  sat  out  in  the 
sun  directing  the  plantation  of  his  shrubs  or  flowers 
when  the  passage  of  the  coach  was  expected.” 

Shortly  after  Banim  had  become  the  occupant  of 
Windgap  Cottage,  some  strolling  players*  under  the 
management  of  Gardiner,  who,  about  twenty -three 
years  ago,  was  a performer  of  Irish  characters  in 
Power’s  line,  at  the  Abbey  Street  Theatre,  Dublin, 
happened  to  be  on  circuit  at  Kilkenny;  and  amongst 
the  company  was  an  actor  named  De  Yere,  of  very 


274 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


considerable  ability,  and  who  was  also  an  excellent 
scholar,  and  a man  of  cultivated  taste.  This  De  Yere 
had  been  attracted  by  the  admirable  “ situations  ” of  the 
tale  by  “ The  O’Hara  Family,”  entitled  “ The  Mayor  of 
Windgap,”  and  had,  at  his  leisure  hours,  dramatized  it. 
This  circumstance  became  known  to  Banim’s  Kilkenny 
friends,  and,  after  some  consultation,  it  was  arranged 
“ The  Mayor  of  Windgap  ” and  “ Damon  and  Pythias  ” 
should  be  performed  by  Gardiner’s  company  for  Banim’s 
benefit.  The  plan  was  speedily  carried  out,  and  a 
crowded  house  and  full  treasury  were  the  welcome 
results. 

But  it  may  be  asked,  how  did  Banim  pass  his  time? 
how  did  he  visit  his  friends  ? how  was  he  able  to  leave 
his  garden  in  search  of  changed  scene,  and  other  air? 
We  asked  these  questions,  and  Michael  Banim  thus 
replied : — 

“ Motion  and  air,  fora  portion  of  each  day,  were  pre- 
scribed as  indispensable  for  the  sufferer’s  endurance  of 
life  : a post-chaise  and  pair  was  the  only  vehicle  he  could 
use,  as  he  should  be  supported  at  his  back  to  the  height 
of  his  shoulders,  and  have  something  to  hold  by  with 
his  right  hand.  This  mode  of  conveyance  having  been 
indulged  in  for  some  months,  was  found  too  expensive, 
and  it  became  necessary  to  provide  some  kind  of  car- 
riage for  his  own  particular  use.  A gentleman  having 
an  old  four-wheeled  chair  lying  by,  presented  it  to  him, 
and  it  was  gratefully  accepted.  On  examination  this 
was  found  unsuitable ; but  as  it  had  been  a gratuitous 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


275 


offering,  it  was  deemed  worth  remodelling,  and  much 
consultation  there  was  as  to  the  mode  of  adaptation. 
It  was  a low  chair,  in  which  two  persons  could  sit 
facing  the  horse,  while  the  driver  took  his  place  imme- 
diately in  front ; there  was  no  support  for  the  back,  no 
grasp  for  the  hand,  and  no  defence  against  the  weather. 
All  these  defects  were  to  be  remedied.  On  a stout  iron 
frame,  a roof  of  oilcloth  was  raised;  projecting  to  the 
front  over  the  person,  a lap  of  leather,  or  apron,  was 
contrived,  folding  over  the  occupant,  nearly  breast  high ; 
and  a stout  loop  of  leather  was  attached  to  the  iron 
stauncheon  of  the  roof,  through  which  the  arm  could  be 
passed. 

“Thus  added  to  ; the  nuts,  and  bolts,  and  so  forth 
put  into  gear,  and  the  whole  newly  painted,  it  was 
tolerably  convenient  for  use ; and  being  unique  in 
structure  and  appearance,  it  received  from  its  owner, 
in  one  of  his  lapses  from  pain,  the  title  of  the  ‘Shan- 
deradan  ’ — a translation,  he  said,  of  its  rattle  and  rumble 
as  it  went  along.  After  a little  use  the  Shanderadan 
gave  way  bit  by  bit  ; the  axle,  the  springs,  the  shafts, 
the  wheels,  all  of  it,  in  fact,  became  disjointed  and 
broken,  and  a year  had  scarcely  gone  by,  when  my 
brother  would  entertain  his  visitors  with  a humorous 
description  of  its  several  dislocations,  and  his  ‘hair- 
breadths ’scapes 5 in  consequence  ; and  he  would  enlarge 
on  the  joint  skill  of  himself  and  Geoffry  Grady,  the 
neighboring  carpenter,  who  had,  the  one  by  plan,  the 
other  by  operation,  displaced,  scrap  by  scrap,  the  entire 


276 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


vehicle,  so  as  to  leave  scarcely  any  of  the  primary  Shan- 
deradan  existing. 

“ The  conveyance  held  together,  however,  by  constant 
patching,  longer  than  its  occupier.  For  six  years  he 
daily  took  his  seat  therein,  in  his  little  garden,  when- 
ever the  weather  and  his  ailment  allowed  him  to  be 
abroad.  Seated  in  this  or  in  his  Bath  chair  (should  the 
Shanderadan  be  under  GeofTry  Grady’s  hands)  he  re- 
ceived his  visitors  ; and  almost  daily,  while  his  life 
continued,  he  was  to  be  met  driving  about  on  one  or 
other  of  the  roads  in  the  neighborhood  of  Kilkenny. 
In  the  Shanderadan  he  frequently  penetrated  into  the 
demesnes  of  the  gentry  of  our  locality,  and  even  into 
their  gardens,  and  he  visited  any  of  the  contiguous 
villages  not  too  distant,  to  continue  his  acquaintance- 
ship with  the  native  resorts  of  his  youth.  He  was 
seldom  without  a companion  as  he  went  along  ; at  times 
his  wife,  at  times  his  brother,  but  most  frequently  his 
daughter,  a lovely  and  loveable  child,  bore  him  company. 
Very  frequently  he  invited  any  of  his  visitors  whose  con- 
versational powers  gave  him  pleasure,  to  sit  with  him 
during  his  little  excursions.  Gerald  Griffin  was  his 
guest  for  a fortnight,  shortly  preceding  the  death  of 
that  eminent  writer.  And  during  the  term  of  the  visit 
the  brother-authors  drove  out  every  day  together. 
Griffin  was  tall,  and  he  was  forced  to  bend  his  knees 
uncomfortably  to  adapt  himself  to  the  inconvenient 
mode  of  conveyance,  that  he  might  enjoy  his  friend’s 
society.” 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


277 


Poor  Griffin!  the  old  times  were  around  him  in 
memory.  Many  a pleasant  hour  they  had  at  this  period. 
And  yet  these  were  hours  snatched  from  physical  pain 
by  Banim,  and  from  pangs  of  a tender  conscience  by 
Griffin ; for  he  had  begun  to  think  of  the  past  as  a void 
in  life,  and  to  look  forward  to  the  future  years  as  a 
period  of  expiation.  He  fancied  that  his  novels  might 
be  injurious,  and,  as  he  expressed  it,  he  felt  the  horrors 
of  “ the  terrible  idea,  that  it  might  be  possible  he  was 
mis-spending  his  time,”  or,  as  he  wrote  to  a friend — 

“ Because  the  veil  for  me  is  rent, 

And  youth’s  illusive  fervor  spent, 

And  thoughts  of  deep  eternity 
Have  paled  the  glow  of  earth  for  me, 

Weaken’d  the  ties  of  time  and  place, 

And  stolen  from  life  its  worldly  grace  ; 

Because  my  heart  is  lightly  shaken 
By  haunts  of  early  joy  forsaken  : 

Because  the  sigh  that  Nature  heaves, 

For  all  that  Nature  loves  and  leaves, 

Now  to  my  ripening  soul  appears 
All  sweetly  weak,  like  childhood’s  tears. 

Is  friendship,  too,  like  fancy,  vain  ? 

Can  I not  feel  my  sister’s  pain  ? 

Ay,  it  is  past!  where  first  we  met, 

Where  Hope  reviving  thirsted  yet, 

Long  draughts  of  blameless  joy  to  drain, 

We  never  now  may  meet  again. 

At  Sabbath  noon  or  evening  late 
I ne’er  shall  ope  that  latched  gate. 

And  forward  glancing  catch  the  while 

The  ready  door  and  L ’s  smile ; 

I ne’er  shall  mark  that  sunset  now, 

Gilding  dark  Cratloe’s  heathy  brow, 

Blushing  in  Shannon’s  distant  bow’rs, 

And  lighting  Canig’s  broken  tow’rs  ; 


278 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


No  more  along  that  hedgy  walk 

Our  hours  shall  pass  in  lingering  talk  ; — 

For  vanished  is  the  poet-queen, 

Who  deck’d  and  graced  that  fairy  scene. 

And  stranger  hands  shall  tend  her  flow’rs, 

And  city  faces  own  her  bowers.” 

However,  with  his  “long  shanks  doubled  up,”  and 
sitting  in  the  Shanderadan  beside  John  Banim,  Gerald 
Griffin  was,  as  in  the  old  days  when  he  wrote  to  his 
brother  William,  of  Banim — “ What  would  I have  done 
if  I had  not  found  Banim  ? I should  never  be  tired  of 
talking  about,  and  thinking  of  Banim.  Mark  me!  he 
is  a man — the  only  one  I have  met  since  I have  left 
Ireland,  almost.” 

As  they  sat  by  Banim’s  humble  table,  he  gathered 
there,  to  do  honor  to  his  guest,  all  in  Kilkenny  who 
were  likely  to  appreciate  the  mind-gleanings  of  himself 
and  his  friend. 

Amongst  those  thus  invited  to  meet  Griffin  was  an 
artist,  now  distinguished  in  his  profession  in  Dublin, 
who  tells  us — “ I met  them  often  during  Griffin’s  visit, 
alone  and  with  others  ; and  ’twas  charming  to  mark 
their  love  of  each  other  ; Griffin’s  buoyant  spirit  seemed 
to  make  Banim  forget  his  pains  ; and  he  appeared, 
when  speaking  of  their  London  life,  to  fancy  himself 
once  more  in  London.  It  was  all — Don’t  you  remem- 
ber, Gerald? — or,  Griffin,  my  boy,  do  you  recollect? 
and  then,  when  Griffin  sang  for  him  his  (Banim’s)  own 
songs,  he  seemed  happier  than  I ever  knew  him,  even 
in  his  best  days.” 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


279 


In  fact,  his  love  for  Griffin  was  so  tender  and  anxious, 
and  yet  so  proud  of  its  being  returned  by  Griffin,  that 
it  took  the  hue  of  a kind  man’s  loving  regard  for  a 
woman : he  loved  him  as  Southey  might  have  loved 
poor  Hartley  Coleridge,  had  Hartley  shunned  the 
enemy  that  stole  away  his  life  and  brains. 

Griffin  returned  to  Pallas  Kenry,  and  a few  weeks 
afterwards  he  thus  wrote  to  Banim.  The  letter  is  now 
first  published,  but  one  more  creditable  to  the  writer’s 
heart  we  have  never  read  : — 

“ Pallas  Kenry,  October , 1836. 

* “ My  dear  Banim, — It  is  with  no  little  gratification  I 
find  myself  writing  to  you  once  more  as  of  old,  to  ask 
you  how  you  are,  and  all  who  are  about  you.  I have 
often  thought  since  I left  Windgap,  that  it  must  have 
been  an  ease  to  you  to  get  rid  of  me,  you  kept  such  con- 
tinual driving  about  while  I was  with  you ; besides  the 
exhaustion  of  the  evenings,  which  I fear  must  have  been 
too  much  for  you  in  your  present  state  of  health.  To 
enable  me  to  pass  my  time  pleasantly,  I am  afraid  you 
made  it  more  unpleasant  to  yourself  than  I ought  to 
have  permitted;  but  I am  a great  hand  at  seeing  what 
I ought  to  have  done  when  the  occasion  is  passed.  And 
now,  in  the  first  place,  I will  ask  you — How  have  you 
been  since  ? and  have  you  yet  had  any  relief  from  those 
terrible  pains  and  sinkings,  from  which  you  used  to 
suffer  so  much  and  so  continually  while  I was  with 
you?  I believe  you  would  think  well  of  Munster  folks, 
if  you  knew  how  kind  and  general  have  been  their 
inquiries  respeeting  you  since  my  return.  How  fer- 
vently do  I wish  that  time,  and  home,  and  patience,  may 
bring  about  in  you  the  same  happy  change  which  they 


280 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


have  often  done  in  other  invalids,  and  enable  you  again 
to  take,  and  long  to  hold,  your  rightful  place  at  the  head 
of  our  national  literature.  This  sounds  mighty  like  a 
fine  speech,  but  let  it  pass.  Would  it  be  unreasonable 
to  ask  you  to  send  me  that  song — your  song — when  you 
can  conveniently  do  so.  I would  also  wish  to  have  that 
beautiful  little  poem  you  read  to  me  one  evening — the 
lines  in  a churchyard:  some  of  them  have  been  haunting 
me  ever  since  I heard  you  read  them.  It  is  time  for  me 
to  say  something  of  the  other  members  of  your  family, 
and  to  make  inquiries  for  Mrs.  Banim  and  for  your 
sweet  little  daughter.  It  is  a great  blessing  that  Mrs. 
Banim’s  health  has  held  out  so  well  under  the  severe 
trials  and  fatigues  to  which  it  has  been  so  long  subjected, 
and  most  sincerely  do  I hope  that  her  devotedness  and 
patience  may  ere  long  meet  some  reward,  in  seeing  you 
restored  to  at  least  a portion  of  the  health  you  once 
enjoyed.  I would  be  most  ungrateful,  indeed  very  un- 
grateful, if  I could  ever  forget  the  attention  I received 
both  from  her  and  you  in  London,  when  friends  were 
less  than  few.  In  your  present  state,  it  must  be  a great 
source  of  satisfaction  to  have  your  sweet  little  Mary  near 
friends  who  feel  for  her  the  interest  which  only,  or  almost 
only,  relatives  can  feel.  Farewell,  my  dear  friend:  God 
bless  you,  and  all  you  feel  an  interest  in.  This  is  my 
sincere  and  fervent  prayer.  Bemember  me  to  your 
father  and  brother  (who,  I find,  was  right  about  action 
and  re-action),  also  to  your  sister.  Hoping  that  you 
will  find  my  ‘ shalls  ’ and  £ wills/  ‘ shoulds  ’ and  ‘ woulds/ 
‘weres’  and  ‘have  beens/  in  tlje  foregoing,  orthodox, 
and  hoping  far  more  ardently  that  they  may  find  you 
better  in  health  and  hope  than  when  I left  you,  I re- 
main, “ My  dear  Banim,  your  sincere  friend, 

“Gerald  Griffin/* 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


281 


About  this  period  the  Earl  of  Mulgrave,  now  Mar- 
quis of  Normanby,  was  Lord  Lieutenant,  and  was  hailed 
by  the  populace  as  the  greatest  and  truest  friend  of 
Ireland  that  had  ever  held  the  Yiceroyalty.  Banim 
joined  naturally  in  the  popular  opinion;  and  when  the 
Lord  Lieutenant,  in  the  course  of  his  “progress” 
through  Ireland,  was  reported  to  approach  Kilkenny, 
Banini  called,  in  the  Shanderadan,  upon  his  artist- 
friend  to  whom  we  have  already  referred,  and,  having 
been  carried  to  the  studio,  said.— 

“ I want  you  to  paint  something  for  me.” 

“ Do  you  ?”  said  the  artist ; “ only  tell  me  what,  and 
I’ll  go  at  it  at  once.” 

“ Well,”  replied  Banim,  “ you  see  there  will  be  a pro- 
cession to  meet  the  Lord  Lieutenant,  and  I want  you 
to  give  a touch  to  the  Shanderadan.” 

“ I was,”  says  our  friend,  “ rather  taken  aback  by 
being  requested  to  make  myself  something  between 
a coach-decorator  and  a sign-painter;  but,  upon  reflec- 
tion, I could  not  refuse  the  poor  fellow,  so  I inquired 
what  kind  of  ‘ touch  ’ he  wished  me  to  give  the  Shan- 
deradan. He  said,  ‘ I want  you  to  paint  the  top  and 
front  of  it  green , and  to  put  on  the  front,  in  orange 
letters, 

Mulgrave  for  ever  V ” 

This  wish  was  gratified  ; and  as  John  Banim,  in  the 
Shanderadan,  drove  through  the  city,  on  the  day  of 
Lord  Mulgrave’s  entrance,  not  a truer  or  more  honest 


282 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


admirer  of  the  Viceregal  politics  greeted  the  Viceroy 
on  his  way. 

Of  his  brother’s  every-day  life  at  Windgap  Cottage, 
Michael  Banim  thus  writes  to  us: — 

“ His  habits  or  occupations  could  be  but  little  varied. 
Beviving  from  the  exhaustion  of  the  night,  he  arose 
generally  at  a late  hour;  from  his  bed  he  was  removed 
to  his  sofa,  and  thence  to  the  Shanderadan,  or  to  his 
chair  in  the  open  air.  There  was  then  his  drive  before 
dinner,  again  to  his  sofa,  and  then  to  seek  such  rest 
as  he  could  find.  He  could  accept  of  no  invitations, 
owing  to  his  decrepitude;  he  was  sometimes  his  father’s 
guest,  up  to  the  old  man’s  death,  which  took  place 
before  J ohn’s ; he  dined  now  and  then  with  his  brother- 
in-law,  and  his  relatives  partook  in  turn  of  his  family 
meal;  chance  guests  might  call  on  him  of  an  evening, 
and  then,  if  not  in  pain,  he  was  merry,  and  his  spirits 
cheerful.  It  will  be  easily  credited,  that,  leading  the  life 
I have  particularized,  it  was  impossible  he  could  employ 
himself  with  any  continuity  at  his  pen.  He  said  to 
me  once — 

“ ‘ Michael,  I shall  never  be  able  to  do  anything  worth 
notice  again  ; I am  now  only  fit  for  stringing  a few 
loose  and  pawky  verses  together — giving  out  the  same 
odor  as  the  archbishop’s  sermons  in  Gil  Bias ; the 
energy  of  my  mind  is  gone  with  the  health  of  my 
body — neither  of  them  ever  to  return.’ 

“Yet  he  was  not  altogether  idle;  he  sent  a few  con- 
tributions to  Tait’s  Edinburgh  Magazine — the  manu- 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


283 


scripts  prepared  at  his  dictation  by  his  devoted  little 
daughter;  and  he  put  together  some  songs — many  of 
them  sweet  and  plaintive,  but  little  of  power  about  them. 
I cannot  point  to  the  particular  song  or  verses  referred 
to  by  Gerald  Griffin. 

“Before  he  had  been  a year  residing  at  home,  the  wel- 
come news  came  that  the  Queen  had  bestowed  a pension 
on  him  of  £150  per  annum.  Never  was  the  royal  bounty 
more  needed,  or  bestowed  on  a more  helpless  claimant. 
1 had  hopes  at  the  time  that  this  certainty  of  the  future 
might  tend,  by  easing  his  mind,  to  the  abatement  of 
the  disease;  his  own  hopes  were  similar  to  mine — but 
there  was  no  amendment. 

“ I have  heard  him  say  that,  for  this  boon,  which,  by 
removing  pecuniary  anxiety,  lightened  his  sense  of  en- 
durance, and  helped  to  smooth  his  passage  to  the  grave, 
he  was  principally  indebted  to  the  present  Earl  of 
Carlisle,*  aided  by  his  early  friend,  Mr.  Sheil. 

“Amongst  other  persons  of  distinction  who  came  to 
visit  him,  the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  then  Lord  Morpeth, 
favored  him  more  than  once  by  calling  at  Windgap. 
My  little  niece,  then  twelve  years  of  age,  attracted  his 
lordship’s  observation.  The  father  spoke  about  his 
anxiety  on  her  account,  and  a further  pension  of  <£40 
was  granted  for  the  child’s  behoof.  This  was  another 
great  cause  of  uneasiness  removed.  My  brother  never 
spoke  of  this  nobleman’s  kindness  and  commiseration 
without  evincing  the  most  lively  gratitude.” 


* Now,  1857,  Lord  Lieutenant. 


234 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM.' 


Michael  Banim  here  refers  to  the  tales  and  poems 
contributed  by  John  Banim  to  the  periodical  literature 
of  the  time.  Indeed,  these  short  pieces  were  his  sole 
means  of  subsistence  previous  to  the  grant  of  his  pen- 
sion ; and  to  the  last  hour  of  his  life,  literary  compo- 
sition was  his  best,  and  surest,  and  chiefest  security 
against  the  depressing  effect  of  pain. 

Amongst  his  poetic  pieces  written  at  this  period  are 
two  little  poems  suggested  by  his  love  for  the  memory 
of  his  dead  child,  his  son.  How  he  loved  this  boy, 
Michael  has  thus  already  told  us : 

“I  have  listened  to  him  for  hours  of  an  eveining, 
after  his  return  home,  describing  the  noble  qualities, 
and  the  affection  of  this  child  to  him.  I have  heard  him 
tell  how  the  little  fellow  would  come  in  from  his  play, 
steal  gently  to  the  back  of  the  father’s  sick  sofa,  and 
press  his  soft  lips  on  the  hand  that  lay  listlessly  hanging 
over.  The  first  intimation  of  the  child’s  presence  would 
be  this  affectionate  salutation.  And  when  the  father 
turned  his  eyes  to  greet  the  saluter,  then  there  was  a 
spring  into  the  parent’s  arms,  and  a fond,  lengthened 
embrace  between  them.  Other  and  various  excellences 
he  would  repeat,  when  he  lay  helpless  and  discoursed 
of  his  affections.” 

It  was  a beautiful  trait  in  the  sick  man’s  character, 
that  frequently,  during  his  bitterest  pangs,  his  memory 
bore  him  back  to  the  child’s  grave  at  Montmartre. 
The  following  are  the  lines  to  which  we  have  re- 
ferred : — 


‘BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM, 


285 


TO  MY  CHILD. 

By  the  quiverings  of  thine  eye,  my  babe,  so  quick  and  sharp,  they 
seem 

Revealings  of  meridian  mind  before  thy  time  to  gleam, 

By  thy  knowledge  of  our  words  to  thee,  although  the  knowledge 
come, 

We  know  not  by  what  promptings,  for  as  yet,  my  babe,  thou’rfe 
dumb — 

By  thine  answers  to  thine  actions,  babe,  so  rapid  and  so  true, 

Is  all  that  by  a word  or  look  we  want  thee,  babe,  to  do — 

By  signs  like  these  ’tis  whispered,  babe,  in  moments  as  of  fear, 

That  a spirit  winged  so  early  forth,  not  long  can  settle  here. 

In  pride,  alone,  and  humble  thanks  for  promised  gifts  so  rare, 

That  foolish  whisper  comes  to  me,  of  my  little  boy  so  fair, 

Because  by  sickness  only,  I am  sure  God  lets  us  know, 

When  he  doth  wish  a living  soul  back  to  Himself  to  go. 

And  yet,  my  babe,  while  you  and  I this  day  communed  alone, 

A creeping  of  that  vain  surmise  I inwardly  did  own, 

There  Was  such  meaning  in  thee,  babe,  so  startling  and  intense— 

A power  in  thine  up-cast  eyes,  a pure  intelligence — 

In  accents  strange  and  primitive,  in  a language  bold  and  strong, 

Once  spoken  in  the  infant  world,  though  now  forgotten  long, 

I almost  thought  to  hear  thee  shape  the  question  of  that  look, 

To  which,  as  to  a spirit’s  glance,  I for  a moment  shook. 

My  dreams ! my  dreams,  I also  fear  ! they  do  so  picture  thee, 

A little  corpse  laid  at  my  feet,  in  sage  tranquillity, 

And  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  my  own  weak  moans  do  start, 

The  desolating  sorrow  from  my  cramped  and  quailing  heart  t 


AN  INFANT’S  BURIAL. 

Little  child  ! for  you 

No  passing  bell  was  rung: 
Little  child!  for  you 
No  burial  chant  was  sung. 


286 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


Little  child!  for  you, 

Before  your  coffin  head, 

No  priest  led  on  the  way 
Unto  your  churchyard  bed. 

Little  child!  for  you 
No  mourning  weeds  were  on, 

To  show  a double  grief 
That  you  to  God  had  gone. 

But  people  paced  around 
With  grave  and  sober  tread, 

In  awe,  not  tears,  to  heaven, 

For  a gracious  infant,  dead. 

Behind,  your  father  walked, 

Linked  with  his  brothers,  two, 
And  alone,  because  infirm, 

Another  followed  you. 

And  why  tolled  not  the  knell — 
Why  was  the  death-chant  mute — 
Why  were  the  mourners  there 
Without  a mourning  suit  ? 

Why  did  no  follower  shed 
A tear,  sweet  child,  for  you  ; 

Nay,  father  and  his  kin, 

Why  were  they  tearless,  too  ? 

Although  it  taxed  them  sore, 

And  him,  the  mourner-chief, 
Although  he  could  have  wept 
Aloud,  aloud  in  grief. 

Because  each  well  did  know — 
Priest,  people,  father,  kin — 

That  for  your  loss  to  us, 

Sorrow  were  almost  sin. 

That  life  is  misery, 

The  more  when  life  is  long — 
That  life  is  weakness  all, 

When  life  should  most  be  strong. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


287 


And  more  than  this  they  knew 
That  God  had  willed  away 
From  earth  a child  of  His, 

Unsullied  by  earth’s  clay— 

As  yet  unstained  by  crime, 

Before  his  Maker’s  face — 

And  therefore  sure  to  find 
In  heaven  a resting-place. 

The  lines  are  not,  we  are  well  aware,  either  very 
poetical  or  very  striking ; but  they  show  the  phases  of 
a longing,  loving  mind ; of  a soul  all  love  and  hope ; of 
a heart  young  amidst  care  and  grief — a heart  that  would 
not  be  crushed. 

A friend  who  visited  Banim  at  this  period  thus  de- 
scribes his  conversation  and  mode  of  life  : — 

“ I had  left  the  town  behind,  and  my  route  led  along 
the  Dublin  road,  when  a small  dwelling  overlooking  the 
path  announced  the  author’s  villa.  A wooden  door 
opened  to  my  summons,  and  admitted  me  into  a small 
court-yard,  bordered  by  a trimly-kept  plot  of  garden 
ground.  A lad  was  wheeling  an  invalid  in  a Bath  chair 
round  the  graveled  walk.  I needed  not  to  ask  ; I knew 
it  must  be  Banim. 

“ Quickly  I approached,  and  put  my  card  into  his 
hand.  c Mr.  Banim,’  I said,  f pardon  this  intrusion,  but 
I could  not  be  a day  in  Kilkenny  without  paying  my 
homage  to  a genius  to  whom  Ireland  owes  so  much. 
I have  written  a little  myself,  and  therefore  felt  bound 
to  come  and  see  you.’ 

“ He  took  my  hand,  and  pressed  it  warmly.  c I have 


288 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


read  your  work  with  pleasure/  he  said,  ‘and  am  thank- 
ful for  your  visit.  Come  in  and  rest  after  your  walk.' 

“‘Pardon  me/  I replied,  ‘if  I decline  just  now.  The 
walk  here  is  nothing,  and  you  are  enjoying  this  lovely 
day.  Continue  your  jaunt,  and  I will  walk  and  talk 
with  you.’ 

“ The  boy  resumed  his  propelling  motion,  and  I chat- 
ted with  the  gifted  Banim.  I had  full  leisure  to  observe 
his  features,  which  were  long  and  delicately  formed ; his 
high  forehead,  denoting  intellect,  and  soft  eyes  ever  lit 
with  flashing  thoughts.  When  he  removed  his  hat,  his 
hair  seemed  grey,  ‘but  not  with  years/  for  I do  not 
think  he  was  much  more  than  forty ; but  with  mental 
excitement,  and  much  privation  and  acute  bodily  suffer- 
ing (he  then  labored  under  rheumatic  paralysis,  which 
deprived  him  of  the  entire  use  of  his  lower  limbs),  had 
told  upon  his  brown  tresses,  and  silvered  his  head. 

“ We  spoke  chiefly  on  literary  topics.  He  declaimed 
powerfully  against  the  low  state  of  literature  in  this 
unhappy  country,  which  he  attributed  to  the  prohibi- 
tion of  learning  in  the  time  of  the  Penal  Laws,  from 
the  effects  of  which  the  great  mass  of  the  people  were 
but  slowly  recovering — how  it  was  impossible  to  derive 
any  considerable  pecuniary  emolument  from  writings 
in  Ireland.  ‘Moore  told  me/  he  said,  ‘if  he  had  con- 
fined his  labors  to  Ireland,  he  would  be  a beggar/  He 
spoke  rather  feelingly  of  the  neglect  of  men  who  had 
the  means,  but  not  the  will,  to  make  his  sojourn  in  his 
native  place  more  agreeable,  and  hinted  at  the  Marquis 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


289 


of  Ormond.  Tears  of  gratitude  sparkled  in  liis  eyes  as 
he  related  a visit  not  long  before  paid  liim  by  the  Lord 
Lieutenant,  the  Marquis  of  Normanby.  If  men  of  that 
class  only  knew  how  prized  a few  kind  words — some 
pithy  notices  of  judicious  praise — are  to  the  sensitive 
minds  of  authors,  methinks  they  would  be  less  chary 
in  giving  what,  at  ah  events,  costs  nothing. 

“I  mentioned  my  regret  at  his  invalid  state,  and 
asked  whether  change  of  air  might  not  be  serviceable  ? 

‘ Ah !’  he  said,  £ I have  tried  that,  and  it  was  of  no  use. 
I was  in  France — at  Boulogne  and  in  Paris — and  the 
contrast  between  my  reception  at  Paris  and  here  is 
painfully  great.  There  I was  made  too  much  of.  My 
soirees,  which,  unlike  the  extravagant  parties  in  this 
country,  I would  give  for  about  a dozen  francs — lights, 
cakes,  cafe,  and  eau  sucre  forming  the  chief  items  in 
our  bill  of  fare — were  attended  by  the  elite  of  the  French 
capital.  The  nobles,  by  birth  as  by  talents,  took  pleas- 
ure in  attending.  I found  my  health  rapidly  declin- 
ing, and  indeed  I came  home  to  die.  My  God ! I shall 
never  forget  the  humiliation  of  feeling  I experienced  on 
landing  at  Kingstown.  Judging  from  the  misery  that 
everywhere  met  my  sight,  I felt  as  if  the  Irish  had 
nothing  to  be  proud  of  except  their  beggars.’ 

“ I described  my  ramble  over  the  city  that  forenoon, 
and  the  interest  which  his  tale  of  the  Boman  Merchant 
gave  to  the  churchyard  of  St.  Canice. 

£££That  is  a singular  incident,’  he  replied,  £and  well 

worthy  of  being  wrought  into  three  volumes.  I wrote 

13 


290 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


that  tale  one  evening  between  dinner-time  and  tea.  It 
is  quite  true.  The  stranger’s  tomb  is  in  the  wall,  near 
the  entrance.’ 

“Banim  now  directed  his  servant  to  turn  his  steps 
towards  the  door,  and,  by  the  help  of  crutches,  entered 
his  dining-room.  Here  we  were  shortly  joined  by  a 
gentle  little  girl,  with  pale,  thoughtful  face,  and  auburn 
hair,  Banim’s  only  child  ; she  spoke  but  seldom  during 
my  stay,  but  her  remarks  betokened  an  intellect  far 
beyond  her  years.  She  seemed  a great  pet  of  her 
father’s,  and  no  doubt  the  fervor  of  his  genius  com- 
municated a warmth  which  caused  hers  to  expand. 

“Of  those  we  love,  unconsciously  we  learn.  Mrs. 
Banim  also  entered,  and  I was  introduced  to  her.  She 
showed  great  solicitude  about  her  husband,  inquiring 
how  his  drive  agreed  with  him,  and  appeared  obliged 
for  my  visit.  She  was  evidently  proud  of  the  renown 
he  had  acquired,  and  felt  every  call  the  homage  he  had 
a right  to  receive.  She  spoke  rather  reproachfully  of 
the  conduct  of  his  countrymen  in  general,  who  seemed 
to  take  little  interest  in  the  declining  health  of  one 
who  had  done  such  honor  to  the  soil. 

“Banim  soon  resumed  his  literary  conversation,  and 
we  talked  much  of  poets  and  poetry.  He  took  down  a 
volume,  and  read  part  of  Shelley’s  £ Faust,’  and  I sat  by 
entranced.  Never  was  poetry  more  eloquently  written, 
and  never  was  poetry  more  eloquently  read.  It  was  a 
glorious  thing  to  hear  such  strains  so  sung. 

“ But  Ireland  was  the  theme  most  upon  his  lips,  and 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


291 


tlie  love  of  country  glowed  in  his  bosom  ever  and 
always.  £ We  have  been  sadly  neglected/  he  said,  £ and 
the  works  which  are  written  on  this  country  seldom  give 
a correct  notion  of  the  people.  Mrs.  Hall  writes  too 
much  like  Miss  Mitford,  and  therefore  too  English 
to  be  correct.  We  want  a cheap  periodical.’ 

“ I mentioned  the  ‘ Dublin  University.’ 

“ £ It  is  a good  magazine  for  the  hands  into  which  it 
falls/  he  replied ; £ but  too  much  devoted  to  party  to 
be  national.’ 

££  He  repeated  some  of  his  own  poetry — very  touching, 
and  intensely  Irish.  I remembered  an  incident  which 
occurred,  as  he  thought,  at  the  Clare  election,  when 
two  adverse  factions  were  reconciled  by  the  amicable 
meeting  of  the  leaders  long  at  variance.  Banim  wrote 
the  following  stanzas  on  the  event,  which  he  called  £ The 
Old  Man  at  the  Altar  : ’ — 

“An  old  man,  he  knelt  at  the  altar, 

His  enemy’s  hand  to  take, 

And  at  first  his  weak  voice  did  falter, 

And  his  feeble  limbs  did  shake  ; 

For  his  only  brave  boy,  his  glory, 

Had  been  stretch’d  at  the  old  man’s  feet, 

A corpse,  all  so  haggard  and  gory. 

By  the  hand  which  he  now  must  greet. 

“ And  soon  the  old  man  stopp’d  speaking, 

And  rage  which  had  not  gone  by, 

From  under  his  brows  came  breaking 
Up  into  his  enemy’s  eye — 

And  now  his  limbs  were  not  shaking. 

But  his  clench’d  hands  his  bosom  cross’d  ; 

And  he  looked  a fierce  wish  to  be  taking 
Revenge  for  the  boy  he  lost. 


292 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


“ But  the  old  man  he  glanced  around  him, 

And  thought  of  the  place  he  was  in, 

And  thought  of  the  promise  that  bound  him, 

And  thought  that  revenge  was  sin — 

And  then,  crying  tears,  like  a woman, 

; Your  hand  V he  cried.  ‘ ay,  that  hand, 

And  I do  forgive  you,  foeman, 

For  the  sake  of  our  bleeding  land  V ” 

When  Messrs.  Gunn  & Cameron  resolved  to  pub- 
lish “ The  Irish  Penny  Journal/’  they  were  anxious  to 
engage  the  services  of  Banim  as  a contributor  ; the 
monetary  differences  too  usual  between  author  and  pub- 
lisher arose,  and  bitter  complaints  wrere  made  by  Banim, 
answered  by  declarations  of  the  publishers  that  he  was 
irregular  in  his  promised  assistance. 

Sick,  weary,  and  irritable,  Banim  became  impatient, 
and  inclosed  the  following  letters  to  his  ever-faithful 
friend,  Michael  Staunton,  then  the  editor  and  proprietor 
of  “ The  Dublin  Morning  Kegister  — 

“ Kilkenny,  September  \Wi,  1840. 

“My  dear  Staunton,  — Should  you  consider  the  ac- 
companying letters  fair  matter  for  the  notice  of  the  Irish 
Press,  I beg  to  leave  them  at  your  disposal. 

“ Ever  truly  yours,  John  Banim. 

“ M.  Staunton,  Esq.’7 

“ Office  of  the  General  Advertiser, 

“ Dublin,  August  21  st,  1840. 

“ Sir, — For  anything  new,  and  which  will  be  suitable, 
we  shall,  if  it  be  first-rate,  pay  as  high  a price  as  any 
one  ; and  more  can  hardly  be  expected  from  the  pub- 
lishers of  such  a work  as  ours. 

“When  we  commenced  the  Penny  Journal,  we  cer- 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


293 


tainly  were  foolish  enough  to  suppose  that  ‘ patriotism  ’ 
(that  is  the  word)  might  possibly  induce  some  one 
Irishman  to  aid  us  with  his  pen  in  our  arduous  under- 
taking— not  certainly  gratuitously,  but  at  a moderate 
rate.  We  have,  however,  already  lived  long  enough  to 
be  undeceived.  We  have  always,  it  is  true,  found  Irish- 
men exceedingly  kind  in  their  professions  of  patriotism, 
and,  verbally,  very  fervent  in  their  hopes  that  every 
Irishman  capable  of  contributing  to  the  Penny  Journal 
ought  to  aid  us  with  his  talents,  and  so  forth.  But  we 
are  constrained  to  say,  that  we  have  always  found  these 
loud  professions  coupled  with  an  immediate  demand  for 
not  only  the  highest  price  for  their  contributions,  but  a 
greedy  desire  to  clutch  as  much  as  possible  from  those 
who,  if  not  more  patriotic  in  reality  than  themselves, 
have  not  had  the  disgusting  hypocrisy  to  avow  a feeling 
they  did  not  possess.  It  is  not  the  demand  for  remu- 
neration, for  this  is  but  fair,  but  it  is  the  invariable 
profession  of  patriotism,  which  is  so  offensive  — that 
patriotism,  we  find,  being  bounded  by  their  lips  and 
pockets.  At  the  time  we  first  wrote  to  you,  we  were 
very  desirous  of  obtaining  your  contributions,  because 
we  then  thought  that  your  name  as  an  author  and  con- 
tributor would  assist  us  in  launching  our  little  work 
successfully. 

“ We  have  now,  however,  found  that  its  unparalleled 
progress  has  depended  more  upon  our  own  efforts  than 
upon  the  aid  of  others;  and  are,  therefore,  much  more 
indifferent.  If  you  had  assisted  us  then,  you  would 
have  obliged  us;  if  you  contribute  now,  it  will  be  to 
oblige  yourself. 

“ We  are,  Sir,  your  obedient  servants, 

“ Gunn  & Cameron. 


To  John  Banim,  Esq.: 


294 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


“ Kilkenny,  September  \lih,  1840. 

“ Messrs.  Gunn  & Cameron, — When  you  first  applied 
to  me  to  contribute  to  your  penny  periodical,  a member 
of  my  family  informed  you  that  from  illness  I regretted 
I could  not  do  so.  Lately  I repeated  the  assertion,  to 
account  for  my  not  sending  at  a later  date  anything 
new.  But  the  respect  due  to  at  least  severe  suffering — 
I put  forward  to  you  no  other  grounds  for  your  for- 
bearance— has  not  been  at  hand  to  protect  me,  and, 
through  me,  the  whole  literature  of  my  country — nay,  the 
character  of  that  country  itself — from  the  gross,  though 
absurd  and  contemptible,  insolence  of  your  letter  of  the 
21st  of  August. 

“But  I have  no  further  answer  to  that  impudent 
shop-boy  letter;  trusting,  however,  to  make  such  use  of 
it  as  may  help  to  deter  future  adventurers  in  Ireland 
from  repaying  with  offered  insult  the  hearty  support  of, 
perhaps,  a too  generous  people. 

“ Continued  indisposition  must  again  account  for  my 
delay  in  answering  your  communication. 

“ John  Banim.” 

This  was  an  unhappy  quarrel ; and  one  must  regret 
that  the  publishers  had  so  little  consideration  for  the 
author’s  condition.  As  Johnson  said  of  Collins,  “When 
sickness  or  want  are  at  the  door,  a man  of  genius  is 
little  calculated  for  abstruse  thought  or  glowing  flights 
of  airy  fancy.” 

There  are — there  have  been — hundreds  of  men  who, 
with  not  one  half  John  "Banim’s  genius,  and  afflicted 
with  not  one  hundredth  part  of  his-  sufferings  and  his 
sorrows,  would  have  become  misanthropic,  and  cold, 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


295 


and  harsh,  even  to  those  nearest  and  dearest  to  them 
by  every  bond  of  relationship,  of  sympathy,  and  of 
friendship.  Not  so  with  Banim.  Broken  in  health, 
powerless  for  work,  weak  in  all  that  a brave,  strong 
soul  would  wish  to  possess  in  full,  complete,  and  vigor- 
ous strength,  still  he  was  the  man,  as  in  other  days,  and 
sickness,  or  pain,  or  grief  could  not  depress  his  spirit. 

Thus  writing,  talking,  suffering,  and — amidst  all  his 
sources  of  despair — ever  hoping,  John  Banim  lived  on. 
He  was  happy  in  one  blessing — his  mind  was  as  strong 
as  ever;  and  he,  like  Johnson,  had  prayed  that  his  intel- 
lect might  continue  vigorous  to  the  last ; like  Swift, 
that  he  might  not  die  from  the  top,  while  the  leaves 
and  branches  were  undecayed. 

But  strength  to  do  was  passing  away,  even  while  the 
will  to  do  was  eager ; and  in  the  following  sketch, 
Michael  Banim  gives  us  an  account  of  the  last  joint 
literary  work  of  the  authors  of  “ Tales  by  the  O’Hara 
Family:”— 

* I had  laid  by  my  pen  to  devote  myself  entirely  to 
business  from  the  period  of  my  coadjutor’s  breakdown 
in  1833.  It  will  be  recollected,  that  in  one  of  the 
letters  from  which  I have  extracted,  my  brother  threw 
out  the  suggestion,  that  we  should  write  a novel,  of 
which  an  old  parish  priest  might  be  the  hero.  In  1840, 
five  years  after  his  return  home,  relinquishing*  on  his 
own  part  all  hope  of  being  able  to  take  up  anything 
requiring  continuous  application,  he  urged  me  to  re- 
sume my  occupation,  under  his  immediate  supervision. 


296 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


“I  had,  some  time  before,  filled  a note-book  with 
materials  referable  to  the  latest  agrarian  confederacy 
that  had  disturbed  our  neighborhood,  the  actor3  in 
which  had  bestowed  on  themselves  the  fantastical  name 
of  £ Whitefeet.’  With  some  of  the  principal  leaders  of 
this  lawless  and  wide-spread  combination  I had  held 
considerable  intercourse;  I had  gained  a knowledge  of 
their  signs  and  passwords,  and  obtained  an  insight  into 
their  views  and  proceedings.  I proposed  a tale  where- 
in my  materials  could  be  used  ; my  adviser  differed 
with  me. 

“ ‘ We  have  given/  he  said,  ‘ perhaps  too  much  of  the 
dark  side  of  the  Irish  character;  let  us,  for  the  present, 
treat  of  the  amiable  ; enough  of  it  is  around  us.  I 
once  mentioned  our  old  parish  priest  to  you  — the 
good,  the  childishly  innocent,  and  yet  the  wise  Father 
O’Donnell.  We  have  only  to  take  him  as  he  really  was, 
and  if  we  succeed  in  drawing  him  life-like,  he  must  be 
reverenced  and  loved,  as  we  used  to  love  and  reverence 
him/ 

“I  sat  down  as  proposed,  wiien  time,  not  indispen- 
sably engaged  otherwise,  enabled  me  to  do  so.  I read 
for  my  brother  each  chapter  as  the  tale  progressed. 
When  I had  put  it  out  of  hand,  he  took  it  up  for 
revision  and  amendment.  I have  ever  since  regretted 
having  allowed  him  to  do  this.  According  to  his  con- 
ception, the  tale  required  extensive  alterations  as  to 
style  and  management : I may  have  differed  with  him ; 
but,  adhering  to  our  original  mode  of  proceeding,  I did 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


297 


not  object  either  to  substitution  or  condensation.  Tho 
task  was  too  continuous  for  his  disorganized  brain, 
. and  I fear  that,  although  his  daughter,  then  fifteen, 
and  a young  man  who  resided  near  the  cottage,  acted 
as  occasional  amanuenses,  his  death  was  hastened  by 
his  more  than  usual  occupation  on  the  tale  of  ‘ Father 
Connell/  In  some  instances  the  original  was  con- 
densed ; and  one  entire  chapter  substituted. 

“ ‘ Father  Connell  ’ was  the  last  joint  work  of  ‘ The 
O’Hara  Family/  John’s  attending  physician,  although 
not  pronouncing  positively,  led  me  to  think  he  might 
have  held  out  longer,  if  he  had  not  wrought,  for  him, 
too  ardently  at  this  book. 

“Not  presuming  for  one  moment  that  the  tale  of 
‘ Father  Connell  ’ possesses  merit  as  a novel,  I may  be 
permitted  to  remark,  that  it  is  so  far  of  value,  inas- 
much as  the  character  of  the  old  priest  who  governed 
the  parish  of  St.  John,  in  Kilkenny,  wrhen  my  brother 
and  I attended  in  our  muslin  surplices  at  his  vesper 
choir,  and  partook  of  his  twelfth-night  feast  of  cakes 
and  ale,  is  attempted  to  be  faithfully  portrayed. 
No  matter  how  meagre  may  be  the  coloring,  or  how 
ill-disposed  the  lights  and  shadows,  and  relief,  the 
likeness  is  a true  one,  without  flattery  or  exaggeration ; 
no  virtue  feigned,  or  habit  imagined  : such  as  he  is 
given  under  the  name  of  e Father  Connell  ’ was  our 
parish  priest,  the  Kev.  Bichard  O’Donnell,  Koman 
Catholic  Dean  of  Ossory,  when  the  writers  of  the 
tale  were  young.” 


298 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


From  tlie  period  of  tlie  publication  of  “ Father 
Connell,”  Banim’s  health  began  to  decline,  and,  more 
perceptibly  than  ever,  he  was  wearing  away.  How  his 
life  faded  into  death,  how  his  last  literary  labors 
were  performed,  and  how  his  last  hours  passed,  we 
shall  now  relate. 


CHAPTER  YIII. 


CLOSING  DAYS  OF  LIFE DEATH PENSION  GRANTED  TO  HIS 

DAUGHTER DEATH  OF  HIS  DAUGHTER PENSION  GRANTED 

TO  MRS.  BANIM MEETING  CALLED  IN  KILKENNY  TO  ERECT  A 

PUBLIC  TESTIMONIAL  TO  BANIM RESOLUTIONS  AND  NAMES  OF 

COMMITTEE TESTIMONIAL  ERECTED — CONCLUSION. 

We  left  Jolin  Banim  with  the  shadow  of  death  around 
him.  The  mind  was  wraning — the  tree  was  dying  from 
the  top — the  stage  was  darkening  as  the  curtain  fell. 
Yet  life  was  about  him,  and  he  longed  for  life.  Those 
who  watched  by  his  bed  in  these  days  tell  us  of  the 
time,  in  memories  bright  and  gloomy — recollections 
which  have  in  them  as  many  smiles  as  tears. 

One  friend,  not  his  brother,  who  lived  in  daily  inti- 
macy with  Banim  during  these  times — who  knew  his 
phases  of  thought,  his  modes  of*  composition  — who 
watched  the  clouds  and  sunshine  of  his  mind — has 
written,  at  our  earnest  request,  the  following  narrative 
of  Banim’s  last  months  of  life 

11  February,  1857. 

“My  dear  Sir, — In  consenting  to  your  request  that 
I would  supply  you  with  some  written  recollections  of 
the  late  John  Banim,  I have  had  to  overcome  a great 
deal  of  reluctance,  which  I very  naturally  felt  when 


300 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


reflecting  on  the  extreme  delicacy  of  such  a task,  and 
the  readiness  with  which  many  people  take  offence  in 
matters  of  biography,  where  none  is  even  remotely  in- 
tended. Your  urgent  importunity  and  my  own  desire 
to  oblige  you,  however,  have  prevailed  in  the  present 
instance ; but  I must  observe  in  limine,  that  I greatly 
fear  you  will  be  disappointed,  if  you  calculate  on  find- 
ing much,  or  any  at  all,  of  what  I have  to  say  worthy 
of  being  transferred  to  your  pages. 

“ I had  some  notion  of  putting  what  I had  to  say  into 
the  shape  of  a consecutive  narrative  ; but  considering 
there  was  so  very  little  incident  in  the  life  of  Mr.  Banim, 
after  his  return  to  his  native  city,  and  during  the  period 
of  my  intimacy  with  him,  that  the  history  of  one  day 
might  well  be  regarded  as  embracing  this  whole  term, 
I feared  I should  produce  a rather  dull  chapter,  and 
therefore,  concluded  it  would  be  better  to  throw  the 
substance  of  my  recollections  and  observations  under 
the  headings  suggested  by  a reference  to  your  first  note 
to  me  respecting  the  points  on  which  you  were  desirous 
of  obtaining  information. 

“First,  then,  as  to  his 

MODE  OF  LIFE  AND  HABITS. 

“My  acquaintance  with  the  author  of  ‘The  O’Hara 
Tales  ’ began  in  the  latter  months  of  1836,  about  a year 
after  his  return  to  Ireland.  He  was  then  residing  in 
Windgap  Cottage,  which  does  not  require  to  be  de- 
scribed by  me ; if  I rightly  remember,  it  has  been  fully 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


301 


noticed  in  a former  chapter.  Here,  sheltered  from  the 
public  gaze,  and  safe  from  intrusion,  he  received  only 
such  visitors  as  he  chose,  and  at  such  times  as  he 
thought  proper  to  admit  them.  Though  his  limbs  had 
now,  for  some  time,  refused  to  obey  his  desire  to  move, 
his  mind  was  still  vigorous  and  active,  and  enabled  him, 
under  an  incredible  amount  of  bodily  suffering,  to  con- 
tinue his  literary  pursuits,  indulge  his  natural  tastes, 
and  labor  to  form  those  of  his  daughter. 

“ He  seldom  rose  in  the  morning  earlier  than  eleven 
o’clock,  and,  if  the  weather  at  all  permitted,  had  him- 
self conveyed  from  his  bedchamber  to  a Bath  chair  in 
the  little  enclosure  that  fronted  the  drawing-room  win- 
dow. The  chair  was  provided  with  pillows  and  cushions, 
which  it  was  Mrs.  Banim’s  or  Mary’s  special  duty  to  see 
properly  arranged,  as  the  organization  of  his  poor  frame 
had  become  so  sensitive  that  even  a crumple  was  suffi- 
cient to  cause  a momentary  agony.  After  a few  turns 
round  the  circular  bed  of  flowers  which  occupied  the 
centre  of  the  garden,  he  would  order  breakfast — a morsel 
of  thin,  dry  toast,  a rare  egg,  and  a cup  of  tea.  This 
dispatched,  the  chair  would  be  again  put  in  motion,  and 
the  exercise  continued  for  an  hour  or  so,  when  he  would 
have  himself  placed  under  the  shade  of  either  of  the  two 
trees  which  stood  at  opposite  points  of  the  enclosure, 
and  devote  the  intermediate  hours  between  that  and 
three  o’clock  to  writing  or  the  care  of  his  flowers,  of 
which  he  was  so  passionately  fond  that  he  frequently 
insisted  on  being  carried  out  at  night  to  ascertain,  by 


302 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


the  light  of  a lantern,  what  progress  his  favorites  were 
making.  He  bestowed  particular  pains  on  the  culture 
of  a rose  unique,  which  was  afterwards  affectionately 
transferred,  by  his  daughter’s  hand,  to  the  turf  under 
which  he  rested,  and,  when  last  I visited  his  grave,  wras 
the  only  mark  by  which  it  could  be  distinguished  from 
the  narrow  dwellings  of  the  humbler  dead  around. 

“ When  three  o’clock  approached,  the  business  occu- 
pying him,  whatever  it  might  be,  was  immediately  laid 
aside,  orders  given  to  have  the  horse  put  to  a little 
‘ machine  ’ in  which  the  pillows  and  cushions  had  been 
previously  arranged  with  the  same  care  as  the  adjust- 
ing of  the  chair  required  in  the  morning,  and,  accom- 
panied by  his  wife  or  daughter,  or  some  other  esteemed 
friend,  for  he  feared  going  out  alone,  he  would  proceed 
on  the  drive  which,  at  this  period  of  the  day,  he  never 
under  possible  circumstances  failed  to  take.  This  exer- 
cise seemed  to  be  essential  to  his  existence,  for,  if  any- 
thing occurred  to  debar  him  from  its  enjoyment,  he 
could  not  resume  ‘his  occupation  for  the  remainder  of 
that  day,  but  became  dull,  peevish,  and  uncomfortable, 
making  every  one  about  him  share  more  or  less  in  his 
unhappiness.  On  returning  from  his  drive,  another 
process  was  to  be  gone  through  before  undertaking  the 
labor  of  dining — the  table  had  but  little  pleasures  for 
him  for  years  before.  An  extraordinary  chilliness  in- 
variably seized  his  whole  body,  particularly  his  lower 
extremities,  on  the  cessation  of  the  rapid  motion  of  the 
carriage.  To  get  rid  of  this  disagreeable  sensation  he 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


303 


used  to  submit  himself  to  a particular  operation  which 
he  humorously  termed  ‘shampooing/  A field-laborer 
who  lived  close  by  was  generally  called  in,  by  whose 
rough,  horny  hand  he  had  himself  briskly  pinched 
from  head  to  foot  for  a full  half-hour,  when  his  natural 
warmth  would  begin  to  return,  and  the  business  of  the 
dinner  become  practicable.  The  shampooing  was  regu- 
larly repeated  before  retiring  to  bed  at  night,  and 
before  leaving  it  in  the  morning. 

“Whenever  the  little  carriage  was  disabled,  which 
was  a circumstance  of  frequent  occurrence,  or  that  a 
horse  could  not  be  procured — he  had  not  always  one 
of  his  own — recourse  was  had  to  the  Bath  chair  as  a 
substitute  for  the  drive,  and,  accompanied  by  Mrs. 
Banim  and  Mary,  who  occasionally  lent  it  an  impulse 
from  behind,  some  friend  of  the  other  sex  having  gen- 
erally volunteered  to  place  himself  at  the  front,  the 
scheme  sometimes  succeeded  exceedingly  well,  while  it 
almost  as  often  involved  its  peculiar  difficulties  and 
even  perils.  When  once  equipped,  if  there  was  any 
spot  sufficiently  near  commanding  a prospect  which  he 
once  admired,  or  presenting  a natural  beauty  with 
which  in  youth  he  had  been  familiar,  an  endeavor 
was  made  to  reach  it — every  practicable  route  being 
sought,  and  none  considered  too  circuitous  to  avoid  the 
public  road,  and  escape  the  public  gaze.  Many  were 
the  obstructions  which  the  unfortunate  chair  had,  in 
such  excursions,  to  encounter;  many  an  intricate  way 
was  entered  without  ever  reflecting  on  the  possibility 


304 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


of  effecting  a return;  and  often  and  often  the  limbs  of 
the  poor  invalid  had  to  repose  on  the  grass  till  the 
chair  had  been  carried  over  obstacles  there  were  no 
other  means  of  surmounting.  His  eagerness  on  one  of 
these  occasions  to  reach  a spot  on  the  banks  of  the 
Nore,  endeared  to  him  by  some  early  recollection,  was 
near  having  a fatal  termination.  The  spot  alluded  to 
was  to  be  gained  by  descending  a gentle  slope,  as  it 
appeared  to  him,  at  the  base  of  which  the  stream 
flowed  smooth  and  deep;  none  of  the  party  present 
apprehended  the  slightest  danger  in  gratifying  his 
desire,  and  the  chair  was  at  once,  and  without  reflec- 
tion, turned  in  the  direction  indicated.  But  a very 
little  progress,  however,  had  been  made  when  the 
motion  of  the  little  hand-carriage  became  too  rapid 
for  the  control  of  the  ladies  who  were  to  act  as  a drag 
in  the  rear ; and  had  not  the  gentleman  in  front,  by  a 
sudden  twist  of  the  guiding-wheel,  and  by  dexterously 
placing  his  own  person  right  in  its  way,  succeeded  in 
arresting  its  onward  movement  before  it  had  acquired 
its  full  impetus,  no  human  power  could  have  pre- 
vented his  being  precipitated  into  the  river,  whereby 
the  ‘ stubborn  Nore 5 would  have  obtained  with  pos- 
terity the  melancholy  interest  of  having  afforded  Banim 
a grave.  It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  terror 
that,  for  the  moment,  took  possession  of  him,  heightened 
as  it  was  by  the  consciousness  of  his  inability  to  help 
himself;  but  the  arrangements  for  effecting  a return 
were  no  sooner  completed  than  he  commenced  jesting 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


305 


at  the  probable  catastrophe  from  which  he  had  escaped, 
and  ridiculing  Mrs.  Banim  and  Mary  for  their  weakness 
in  having  yielded  to  womanly  fears  on  the  occasion. 

“ There  was  another  circumstance,  too,  connected 
with  his  excursions,  productive  of  no  small  inconvenience 
to  Mrs.  Banim  in  the  way  of  domestic  arrangements, 
but  which  her  c hereditary  generosity  ’ enabled  her 
patiently  to  support.  The  roads  and  green  lanes  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Kilkenny,  in  the  latter  of  which 
the  little  carriage  of  our  poet  was  frequently  seen  to 
pause  on  summer  evenings,  abounded  at  that  time,  at 
all  events,  in  specimens  of  human  misery  whioL  a sensi- 
tive heart,  however  well  acquainted  with  the  devices  of 
mendicant  hypocrisy — a species  of  knowledge  in  which 
he  considered  himself  deeply  skilled  — could  scarcely 
help  commiserating.  Whenever  anything  in  the  ap- 
pearance or  the  story  of  one  of  these  unfortunates 
seemed  to  speak  of  better  days,  or  deserve  a better 
fortune,  he  or  she,  or  they — sometimes  the  case  would 
comprise  a whole  family — had  orders  to  follow  the 
carriage  or  the  chair  home  to  Windgap,  where,  when 
their  comforts  had  been  attended  to,  lodgings  would  be 
procured,  and,  if  the  subject  was  a fitting  one,  an  effort 
made  to  procure  a service,  or  some  kind  of  permanent 
employment.  Some  act  of  theft  or  ingratitude  was 
generally  the  return  for  his  excessive  kindness;  still,  the 
very  next  day,  a tale  of  woe  would  find  as  ready  en- 
trance to  his  heart  as  if  he  had  never  erred  in  his 
judgment  of  the  narrator  of  one.  Amongst  the  guests 


306 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


here  alluded  to  was  a deaf  and  dumb  boy,  of  about 
fifteen  years  of  age,  who  had  been  discharged,  or  else 
had  made  his  escape,  from  the  Glasnevin  Institution. 
Picked  up  one  summer  evening  in  the  usual  way,  as 
Banim  was  enjoying  his  customary  exercise,  he  was, 
of  course,  directed  to  come  to  Windgap,  where  his 
quick  intelligence,  docility,  and  eagerness  to  make  him- 
self useful,  soon  rendered  him  a general  favorite.  For 
nearly  a month  he  presented  himself  regularly  at  the 
cottage,  at  the  hour  its  master  was  wont  to  make  his 
appearance  in  the  garden.  His  face  would  beam  with 
pleasure  whenever  Banim  began  to  interrogate  him,  or 
invited  him,  by  means  of  slate  and  pencil  or  the  tele- 
graphic movement  of  his  fingers,  to  draw  the  chair  or 
water  the  flowers.  He  disappeared,  however,  like  a 
young  wolf,  when  he  was  thought  to  be  quite  domesti- 
cated, and  without  any  apparent  reason.  He  is  men- 
tioned here  merely  as  an  instance  of  the  changes  men’s 
opinions  often  undergo  with  respect  to  the  theories  of 
their  earlier  days.  The  c Kevelations  of  the  Dead-Alive  ’ 
shows  what  a skeptic  Banim  was  in  the  doctrines  of 
phrenology,  and  his  sincerity  in  the  ridicule  of  that 
science  at  the  time  the  above-mentioned  work  was 
published;  at  this  period,  however,  so  firm  was  his 
creed  in  the  soundness  of  its  principles,  that  he  never 
left  this  boy  at  the  cottage,  when  going  out  to  drive, 
without  placing  him  in  charge  of  the  man  who  was 
employed  to  do  the  ‘ shampooing/  as  he  apprehended 
some  dreadful  consequences  might  result  from  an  op- 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


807 


portunity  being  presented  for  gratifying  the  animal 
propensities  which  he  fancied  were  indicated  by  his 
cerebral  conformation.  Here  are  facts  to  illustrate  his 

LOVE  OF  KIND  3 

which,  far  from  being  confined  to  his  own  immediate 
friends,  was  for  ever  displaying  itself  in  some  one  or 
other  species  of  action,  haying  for  its  object  the  moral 
or  social  improvement  of  so  much  of  the  humbler 
classes,  collectively  or  individually,  as  came  within  the 
scope  of  his  influence. 

“ In  close  proximity  to  Windgap  Cottage  stood  a 
newly-erected  school-house,  a fine  spacious  building, 
and  at  the  time,  perhaps,  superior  to  any  provincial 
structure  of  the  kind  in  the  kingdom  ; it  was  the  work 
of  Michael  Banim’s  untiring  zeal  in  the  cause  of  educa- 
tion. He  spared  neither  time  nor  labor  in  collecting 
subscriptions,  soliciting  donations,  or  superintending  the 
tradesmen  engaged  in  the  work.  Indeed,  in  his  eager- 
ness to  complete  the  undertaking,  he  made  considerable 
advances  from  his  private  means,  which  were  never 
repaid  him.  The  national  system  was  then  in  its  infancy, 
and  by  no  means  popular ; Michael  Banim  was,  however, 
amongst  the  first  to  perceive  its  advantages,  and  he 
entertained  sanguine  expectations  of  achieving  the  hap- 
piest results  for  the  children  of  the  poor  of  his  native 
city  from  a combination  of  those  advantages  with  the 
free  character  of  ‘Father  Connell’s ? charitable  institu- 
tion. With  this  view  the  idea  of  a National  Free  School, 


308 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


to  supersede  the  theatre  of  ‘Mick  Dempsey’s*  labors, 
to  be  still  governed  by  a committee  of  the  Society  which 
had  been  founded  for  the  support  of  the  honored  sem- 
inary, which,  it  is  hoped,  Banim’s  pages  have  now  im- 
mortalized, the  members  whereof  (comprising  every 
respectable  individual  in  the  community)  still  met  oc- 
casionally and  paid  their  small  quarterly  subscriptions  ; 
and  to  differ  only  from  its  predecessor  in  the  enjoyment 
of  a Government  grant,  was  conceived  and  executed. 

“ The  result  of  Michael  Banim’s  labors  was  not  what 
he  expected.  The  building  being  pronounced  fit  for 
occupation,  the  committee  met,  and,  through  improper 
interference,  from  private  motives,  an  incompetent  per- 
son was  elected  to  take  charge  of  the  new  school,  in 
opposition  to  the  wishes  and  advice  of  the  gentleman 
who  had  originated  the  plan,  and  done  so  much  to  carry 
it  out  and  secure  its  success.  Michael  Banim,  of  course, 
ceased  to  take  further  part  in  the  proceedings  of  the 
committee  ; the  members  of  the  Society  began  to  refuse 
subscription,  on  the  ground  of  the  support  to  be  derived 
from  the  Board  of  Education,  and  to  declare  off  alto- 
gether ; few  or  no  pupils  made  their  appearance,  on 
account  ©f  the  prejudice  that  existed  regarding  the  Na- 
tional system,  and  finally  the  Board  of  Education  with- 
drew the  gratuity,  not  recognizing  the  claims  of  a school 
in  which  no  effort  was  made  to  promote  the  objects  for 
wThich  the  Board  was  instituted.  Such  was  the  condi- 
tion to  which  ‘ Mick  Dempsey’s  ’ once  flourishing  realm 
was  reduced  on  Banim’s  return  to  Kilkenny.  He  re- 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


309 


gretted  the  disappearance  of  the  old  thatched  roof  under 
which  the  shivering  limbs  of  so  many  poor  children  were 
made  to  experience  annually  the  blessings  of  Father 
Connell’s  charity,  and  that  of  many  another  benevolent 
spirit,  long  after  the  pulse  of  that  commiserating  heart 
had  ceased  to  beat.  The  handsome  edifice  which  re- 
placed it  was  but  a poor  compensation,  in  Banim’s 
opinion,  for  the  good  that  had  departed  with  it;  and  in 
the  general  apathy  that  prevailed  with  regard  to  the 
matter,  he  resolved  to  take  upon  himself  the  task  of 
reviving  the  Society,  and  of  turning  the  fine  new  school- 
house  to  some  practical  account  at  least,  if  the  ancient 
utility  of  the  old  one  could  not  be  restored.  For  this 
purpose  he  put  himself  at  once  in  communication  with 
the  Board  of  Education,  to  request  a renewal  of  the 
connection,  and  with  the  local  clergy,  to  secure  an 
attendance  of  pupils.  Both  these  objects  attained,  he 
succeeded  in  interesting  Mr.  Iveoglian — one  of  the 
Catholic  curates  of  the  parish,  and  a gentleman  for 
whose  zeal  as  a minister,  and  acquirements  as  a scholar, 
he  had  the  greatest  esteem — so  much  in  the  further- 
ance of  his  views,  that  the  latter  readily  consented  to 
accompany  him  on  a questing  excursion  amongst  the 
quondam  subscribers.  On  a fixed  day,  accordingly,  the 
carriage  was  ready  at  an  hour  much  earlier  than  usual ; 
and  Mr.  Keoghan  being  punctual  to  his  appointment, 
both  gentlemen  proceeded  on  their  mission ; the  fol- 
lowing day  was  devoted  to  the  same  object,  and  a sum 
was  collected  far  exceeding  all  expectation.  Banim’s 


310 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


glee  was  great  on  the  evenings  of  both  these  days — he 
and  the  clergyman  congratulating  themselves  over  a 
glass  of  sherry  (which,  being  plentifully  diluted  with 
water,  formed  his  favorite  beverage)  on  their  eminent 
success,  and  laughingly  relating  how,  by  judiciously  flat- 
tering the  wives,  they  succeeded  in  obtaining  both  ar- 
rears and  current  subscriptions,  when  the  surly  husbands 
would  persist  in  obstinately  refusing  payment  of  either. 
Alas  for  the  mutability  of  human  things!  the  good 
Father  Keoghan  was  carried  away  in  a few  months 
after  by  a malignant  fever,  caught  in  his  attendance  on 
a patient  at  the  County  Fever  Hospital;  Banim  is 
scarcely  remembered  in  his  native  city;  while  few,  if 
any,  know  there  ever  existed  such  a body  as  the  once 
famous  ‘St.  John’s  Parochial  Society.’  But  to  return. 
One  week  after  Banim  had  formed  his  resolution,  the 
school  was  in  efficient  working  order,  and  had  an  im- 
petus communicated  to  it  which  bore  it  beyond  the 
chance  of  again  sinking  into  the  condition  from  which 
his  efforts  had  raised  it.  Nor  did  his  solicitude  in 
regard  to  it  stop  here ; many  an  hour  was  snatched 
from  other  important  business  in  order  to  pay  a visit 
to  the  school.  On  these  occasions  it  was  necessary 
that  the  chair  and  cushions  which  he  used  at  home 
should  be  sent  before  him,  by  which  there  was  given 
timely  intimation  of  his  approach  — a circumstance 
which  frequently  caused  him  to  allude  to  his  infirmity 
in  terms  of  mingled  pleasantry  and  sadness,  and  to  ob- 
serve how  lucky  it  was  for  both  teachers  and  pupils 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


311 


that  they  need  be  in  no  apprehension  of  ever  being 
taken  by  surprise.  And  yet  he  would  sometimes 
express  himself  on  these  and  other  occasions  so  as  to 
lead  one  to  think  that  he  did  not,  at  least  at  that  time, 
quite  despair  that  such  might  one  day  be  the  case. 

“ Having  taken  possession  of  his  chair  in  the  school- 
room he  would  summon  before  him  the  various  classes 
in  turn,  explain  the  subjects  of  the  different  lessons, 
lecture  on  the  elements  of  grammar  and  geography,  in 
the  latter  of  which  he  would  use  his  clenched  hand 
with  great  effect  as  a substitute  for  a globe,  when  it 
was  necessary  to  explain  why  the  figure  of  the  earth 
was  usually  represented  by  two  circular  pictures,  etc., 
and  communicate  all  sorts  of  knowledge  in  such  popu- 
lar language,  and  in  a manner  so  fascinating,  that  the 
little  students  were  always  sorry  when  his  visit  ter- 
minated. He  bestowed  many  marks  of  favor  and 
encouragement,  too,  on  such  of  the  boys  as  exhibited 
marks  of  talent.  There  was  one  in  particular  for  whose 
future  way  in  the  world  he  was  resolved  to  interest 
himself ; but  chancing,  during  an  evening  drive,  to 
surprise  him  in  the  act  of  lighting  a collection  of  straw 
which  he  had  heaped  on  an  unfortunate  hedgehog,  for 
the  purpose  of  forcing  the  poor  animal  into  a state  of 
activity,  and  thereby  furnishing  pastime  to  a crowd  of 
associates,  he  abandoned  all  his  kind  intentions  towards 
him,  and,  save  reading  him  a severe  lecture  on  his 
cruelty,  never  again  noticed  him  in  any  of  his  subse- 
quent visits  to  the  school,  which  were  only  given  up 


312 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


when  increasing  feebleness  rendered  it  impossible  to 
continue  them  longer. 

Besides  the  improved  system  of  education  which  he 
was  the  means  of  introducing  into  the  school,  he  had 
in  contemplation  another  project  for  still  further  ele- 
vating the  taste  of  the  generation  then  springing  up 
around  Windgap  Cottage.  It  was  the  establishment, 
if  possible,  of  light  theatrical  performances,  in  connec- 
tion with  the  school,  somewhat  after  the  fashion  of 
educational  institutions  of  loftier  pretensions.  The 
practicability  of  the  scheme  was  often  gravely  dis- 
cussed, and  its  success  considered  certain.  The  musical 
and  dramatic  talents  of  the  artisans  of  the  ‘ faire  citie  ’ 
had  been  celebrated  even  before  the  time  of  Moore’s 
theatricals  there,  and  I may  safely  add  were  sufficiently 
noticeable  at  the  time,  at  least,  to  be  considered  charac- 
teristic. From  those,  in  conjunction  with  the  pupils 
attending  the  school,  he  reckoned  on  being  able  to 
form  a tolerably  efficient  company ; the  school-room 
he  pronounced  admirably  adapted  for  the  purpose  of 
a theatre  ; and  one  of  his  own  short  pieces,  which 
required  but  simple  scenery  and  moderate  artistic  skill, 
would  afford  suitable  material  for  a first  attempt.  The 
rehearsals  and  other  details  were  to  be  an  affair  of 
personal  superintendence,  and  the  recovery  of  a little 
even  of  his  former  strength  was  all  that  was  required 
to  put  the  design  in  immediate  execution.  This  he 
kept  fondly  promising  himself  was  some  time  or  other 
to  return;  the  hope  of  renewed  health,  as  long  as  he 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


313 


was  capable  of  hoping,  never  completely  deserted  him ; 
it  was  a vain  expectation,  however,  and  so  the  experi- 
ment was  destined  to  remain  untested.  The  same 
cause  prevented  him  from  giving  the  world  a work, 
the  plan  of  which  had  been  conceived  some  years  be- 
fore, and  for  which  considerable  materials  had  been 
collected;  it  was  to  have  been  entitled  the  ‘Lies  of 
History/  and  dedicated  to  his  daughter. 

“When  discussing  his  theatrical  project,  he  would 
lay  it  down  as  a maxim,  that  a high  moral  style  of 
drama  was  a test  of  a country’s  greatness ; that  it  fos- 
tered the  seeds  of  nationality,  and  matured  its  fruits ; 
that  it  should  be  regarded  as  amongst  the  most  power- 
ful instruments  of  refinement  and  order  ; and  that  to 
cultivate  and  spread  a taste  for  it  was  a task  becoming 
every  man  truly  desirous  of  regenerating  his  country 
or  protecting  her  independence.  His  impressions  in 
this  respect  seemed  founded  on  grounds  furnished  by 
his  own  special  case ; for,  questioning  his  daughter  one 
day  on  the  subject  of  her  school  exercises,  and  looking 
through  the  little  pile  of  books  from  which  she  had 
been  preparing  her  various  lessons,  he  expressed  some 
surprise  at  not  being  able  to  discover  amongst  them 
the  one  which  of  all  others  he  most  wished  to  see  in 
her  hands ; and  to  her  request  to  be  informed  to  what 
particular  book  he  alluded,  he  replied  that  it  was  the 
old  ‘ Scott’s  Lessons,’  or  ‘ Speaker,’  as  that  once  popular 
treatise  on  Elocution  was  more  generally  called,  adding, 
that — taking  into  view  the  whole  circle  of  his  youthful 


314 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


discipline — the  study  of  the  dramatic  selections  com- 
prised in  it  had  had  by  far  the  largest  share  in  the 
process  which  formed  his  mind.  Indeed,  the  c rival  near 
the  throne’  of  the  realm  of  theatrical  recitation,  whom 
James  Charles  Bucmahon  (Buchanan,  for  he  was  a real 
character,  as  I need  scarcely  say  almost  all  Banim’s 
were),  the  master  of  the  English  Academy,  suspected 
he  was  one  day  to  encounter  in  the  person  of  the  young 
hero  of  ‘Father  Connell/  was  no  other  than  little  John 
Banim  himself.  It  was  little  John  Banim’s  forefinger 
of  the  right  hand  that  used  to  define  with  such  exacti- 
tude the  orb  of  Norval’s  shield;  his  little  head  that 
wTas  wont  to  drop  as  naturally  asleep  on  the  form  in  the 
old  school-room,  as  if  it  were  the  genuine  royal  couch 
on  Bosworth  field,  and  then  express  by  such  unmis- 
takable signs  the  mortal  terror  that  had  disturbed  his 
slumber  ; and  it  was  from  his  little  fist,  when  person- 
ating Will  Boniface,  that  c the  imaginary  ale’  was  quaffed 
with  the  smack  and  relish  that  were  accustomed  to 
draw  tears  of  laughter  from  the  good  old  priest,  and 
throw  the  rough  but  warm-hearted  housekeeper,  who 
had  never  in  the  course  of  her  life  seen  anything 
approaching  a veritable  actor,  into  a fever  of  delight, 
forcing  her  to  vent  her  approval  in  terms  so  near  the 
line  in  Shakespeare,  ‘ He  doth  it  as  like  one  of  those  har- 
lory  players  as  ever  I see !’  that  a listener  unacquainted 
with  her  unromantic  nature  might  easily  be  betrayed 
into  the  belief  that  she  actually  meant  a quotation 
from  the  bard. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


315 


“ He  was  not,  however,  by  any  means  so  much  of  a 
visionary  as  to  allow  a theory,  no  matter  what  it  might 
have  for  its  object,  or  how  large  a share  of  his  atten- 
tion it  might  claim,  to  interfere  materially  with  his 
serious  occupations ; indeed,  it  was  only  under  the  most 
favorable  circumstances  as  to  health  and  leisure,  that 
he  purposed  his  present  plan  should  be  worked  out. 
Whilst  the  chance  of  such  a happy  state  of  things  was 
becoming  every  day  more  unlikely,  though  not  so  as 
to  assume  the  appearance  of  an  utter  impossibility, 
a portion  of  a company,  just  then  disengaged  by  the 
periodical  closing  of  one  of  the  Dublin  theatres,  arrived 
in  Kilkenny,  and  the  local  newspapers  were  requested 
to  acquaint  the  public  that  a series  of  performances 
would  be  forthwith  given  in  the  c Assembly  Rooms’  of 
the  ‘Tholsel,’  under  the  management  of  Mr.  Gardiner, 
a comedian  of  established  reputation,  assisted  by  some 
of  the  most  distinguished  names  in  the  profession. 
Amongst  other  great  feasts  to  which  the  citizens  were 
to  be  treated,  there  appeared  announced  in  very  promi- 
nent characters,  ‘ Banim’s  “ Mayor  of  Windgap,”  dra- 
matized for  the  occasion  by  a member  of  the  company.’ 
Mr.  Banim  regarded  the  announcement  with  pleasure ; 
believing  that  the  story  could  be  effectively  used  in 
that  way  by  a skillful  hand,  and  that  the  thing  would 
not  be  attempted  in  his  immediate  presence  unless 
executed  in  commendable  fashion.  He  awaited  the 
performance,  therefore,  with  some  interest,  hoping  that 
the  result  would  prove  creditable  both  to  himself  and 


316 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


tlie  dramatizer.  It  was  evident,  however,  from  the 
first  scene,  tliat  the  gentleman  who  undertook  the  task 
was  possessed  of  more  temerity  than  talent.  Mr. 
Gardiner’s  humor,  indeed,  secured  him  some  applause 
in  his  personation  of  the  Mayor’s  Bailiff,  a character 
which  had  been  sketched  with  such  fidelity  in  the 
original,  that,  much  of  its  individuality  as  it  had  lost 
in  its  transmutation,  it  was  still  easily  recognized,  and 
‘Bryan  Sweeny’  resounded  from  all  directions  of  the 
house  each  time  he  made  his  appearance.  Bryan 
Sweeny  was  the  real  name  of  the  worthy  who  sat  for 
this  portrait  to  Banim,  and,  though  some  years  had 
elapsed  since  the  decease  of  himself  and  the  corrupt 
old  corporation  of  which  he  had  been  an  officer,  the 
identity  was  at  once  admitted  by  all  who  had  been 
familiar  with  that  model  official.  In  the  remainder  of 
the  details  the  piece  bore  so  little  resemblance  to  the 
original,  that  it  would  seem  the  title  of  ‘Mayor  of 
Windgap  ’ was  bestowed  on  it  only  as  the  best  means 
that  could  be  resorted  to  for  the  purpose  of  ‘filling 
the  house.’  This  report  of  the  affair  annoyed  Mr. 
Banim,  and  for  a time  he  felt  almost  as  mortified  as 
if  the  failure  could  be  attributed  to  his  own  production. 
He  bitterly  observed  that  he  believed  there  never  yet 
was  a scribbling  fool  who  did  not  fancy  he  could  write 
a play,  and  who,  failing  to  give  the  world  some  ridicu- 
lous production  of  his  own,  did  not  disfigure  somebody 
else’s.  Anxious  to  impress  his  fellow-citizens  with  a 
more  favorable  opinion  as  to  his  powers  as  a dramatic 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


317 


writer  than  what  they  could  be  expected  to  entertain 
from  witnessing  the  performance  just  alluded  to,  and 
ambitious  of  having  one  of  his  own  pieces  represented 
in  his  native  city,  he  proposed  to  Mr.  Gardiner  to  bring 
out  ‘ The  Conscript  Sisters/  which  had  been  written  for 
Arnold’s  Theatre,  and  acted  there  with  eminent  success. 
Gardiner  perused  it,  but  finding  it  did  not  come  quite 
within  the  range  of  his  own  or  his  company’s  talents, 
he  returned  it  to  the  author,  who  was  thus  debarred  the 
only  remedy  that  presented  itself  for  the  outrage  com- 
mitted on  one  of  the  most  exquisite  of  his  O’Hara 
Tales.” 

Taking  up  the  narrative  from  this  point,  Michael 
Banim  writes  to  us  : — 

“ Late  in  July,  1842,  I left  home  to  spend  a fort- 
night with  some  friends  forty  miles  from  Kilkenny. 
When  parting  from  my  brother,  I could  perceive  no 
change  for  the  worse  in  his  symptoms  or  appearance. 
I was  suddenly  summoned  home  in  consequence  of  his 
dangerous  illness.  I returned  at  once.  I found  him 
barely  able  to  recognize  me — only  able  to  take  my  hand 
and  look  in  my  face,  but  incapable  of  speaking.  I saw 
at  a glance  that  his  time  of  suffering  was  nearly  over.  I 
attended  on  him  until  I closed  his  eyes.  His  struggle 
against  death  was  an  enduring  one.  His  chest  and 
lungs  were  sound  and  healthy,  and  he  continued  to 
breathe  strongly,  but  not  painfully,  for  a day  and  night 
after  all  consciousness  had  left  him.  Death  was  rather 
the  extreme  of  exhaustion  than  a violent  separation  of 


318 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


the  spirit  from  its  prison.  Life  passed  from  him  almost 
unperceived. 

“ Frequently,  during  the  last  six  years  of  his  life  my 
brother  and  I had  been  together,  he  engaged  my  prom- 
ise that  I would  stand  by  while  his  grave  was  digging, 
that  I would  see  the  side  of  his  mother’s  coffin  laid  bare, 
and  that,  when  his  body  was  lowered  to  its  last  resting- 
place,  I should  be  certain  the  side  of  his  coffin  was  in 
close  contact  with  that  of  his  beloved  parent.  His  in- 
structions were  religiously  observed. 

“ There  are  two  portraits  extant  of  the  subject  of 
your  memoir ; one,  in  my  possession,  painted  by  him- 
self * when  in  his  nineteenth,  or  approching  to  his 
twentieth  year  ; the  other  remaining  with  the  talented 
artist  of  whose  pencil  it  is  the  production,  Mr.  George 
Mulvany,  of  Dublin — the  last  mentioned  taken  after  the 
total  failure  of  health.  Both  these  pictures  are  excellent 
likenesses  of  the  original  at  the  different  periods  of  life 
when  they  were  painted.  Placing  them  side  by  side, 
if  would  require  almost  a stretch  of  the  imagination 
to  trace  a resemblance  between  them,  or  to  acknowledge 
them  as  representations  of  the  same  person. 

“ I have  not  attempted,  in  any  of  my  notes  furnished 
you,  to  measure  my  brother’s  claims  to  literary  dis- 
tinction. His  merit  as  a poet  or  novelist  I have  not 
sought  to  weigh  or  to  decide  on.  I have  contented 
myself  with  giving  a faithful  account  of  his  early  and 

* This  is  the  portrait  of  “ her  own  graw  bawn,”  before  which  old  Mrs.  Banim, 
John’s  mother,  used  to  pray. 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


319 


more  mature  endeavors  to  establish  the  reputation  he 
thirsted  to  attain.  The  range  and  quality  of  his  genius 
as  a writer  I leave  to  more  disinterested  parties  than 
myself  to  ascertain  and  define.  I think  I may  claim 
for  him,  however,  numerous  amiable  qualities,  springing 
directly  from  the  heart,  the  seat  of  the  affections  ; and 
many  valuable  qualities  emanating  from  the  head,  the 
formator  of  character. 

“His  affections  were  ardent,  impulsive,  and  uncal- 
culating. He  was  industrious,  persevering,  and  self- 
reliant,  so  long  as  his  physical  capabilities  enabled  him 
to  be  so. 

“ It  will  be  borne  in  mind  that  he  died  while  yet 
young,  and  that,  for  fully  thirteen  years  preceding  his 
demise,  the  physique  of  his  mental  power  was  not  in 
health,  nor  the  full  force  of  his  mind  at  his  command. 
Ad  forty-four,  his  age  when  he  died,  men  of  genius 
begin  to  train  the  flights  of  imagination  and  fancy  with- 
in the  scope  of  reason,  to  prune*  exuberances,  and  to  con- 
trast with  judgment. 

“ I think  I may  affirm  that,  had  it  pleased  Providence 
to  have  given  him  health  during  the  thirteen  years  he 
was  an  ailing  and  incapable  aspirant  for  fame  and  inde- 
pendence, and  to  have  prolonged  his  life  until  he  had 
descended  even  but  little  from  the  summit  of  existence 
which  he  had  not  reached,  he  would  have  made  good 
way  towards  the  goal  he  had  marked  out  ultimately  to 
reach.  I am  confident  that,  had  health  and  life  been 
his,  he  would  have  advanced  much  closer  than  he  did 


320 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


to  c Fame’s  Magnetic  Altar  ’ — the  bourne  to  be  attained, 
as  expressed  in  one  of  his  early  rhymes. 

“ About  to  close  my  subject,  I will  here  reiterate  the 
opinion  I mentioned  to  you  when  relating  the  termin- 
ation of  his  boyish  passion.  I still  think  that  the 
peculiar  ailment  causing  death,  and  which  for  some 
time  baffled  the  skill  of  the  most  eminent  medical  men, 
had  its  origin  at  the  period  of  this  early  calamity.  I 
judge  that  his  brain  was  then  injured,  and  that  the 
subsequent  overworking  of  the  seat  of  thought  brought 
on  the  spinal  disease,  which  first  paralyzed  his  limbs, 
and  finally  extinguished  life. 

“My  brother  left  behind  him  a widow  and  an  only 
child,  his  daughter  Mary.  I have  stated  that  this 
beloved  daughter  had  been,  through  the  kind  inter- 
ference of  the  present  Earl  of  Carlisle,  placed  on  the 
pension-list  at  J£40  a year.  Shortly  after  her  father’s 
death  she  was  placed  at  the  convent  school  of  Water- 
ford, under  the  special  care  of  the  sister  of  Mr.  Sheil— 
Mr.  Sheil  himself  being  one  of  her  guardians.  In  the 
October  of  1843  I visited  her  there,  and  spent  the  day 
in  private  discourse  with  her.  She  was  then  a very 
lovely  girl,  full  of  talent,  full  of  endearing  affection, 
giving  promise  of  doing  credit  to  her  parent’s  name. 
The  February  following,  I received  notice  that  she  was 
very  ill.  She  had  shown  symptoms  of  chest  disease 
at  Christmas,  at  first  thought  lightly  of.  When  I visited 
her,  in  February,  consumption  had  painted  two  vivid 
spots  of  dazzling  red  upon  her  cheeks,  and  given  a 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


321 


flaring  lustre  to  her  dark  eyes.  The  June  following 
she  died,  in  her  eighteenth  year,  and  her  coffin  was 
placed  on  the  yet  sound  timber  encasing  her  father’s 
remains.” 


When  John  Banim’s  daughter,  his  only  surviving 
child,  thus  died,  his  fellow-countrymen  feared  that  his 
widow  might  not  be  considered  a fit  object  for  the 
bounty  of  the  State.  Such  fear,  however,  owing  to  the 
active  interposition  of  the  late  Sir  Bobert  Peel,  was 
not  well  founded.  The  following  paragraph,  from  “ The 
Nation”  of  Saturday,  May  10th,  1845,  describes  all  the 
matters  of  interest  connected  with  the  case  ; and  the 
names  appended  show  how  warmly  and  how  generally, 
despite  opposite  feelings  of  politics  and  religion,  the 
memory  of  John  Banim,  the  Scott  of  Ireland,  was 
cherished : — 

“ Mrs.  Banim. 

“ Sir  Robert  Peel  has  acted  most  kindly  and  creditably 
with  reference  to  this  lady.  A Committee  of  twenty- 
one,  including  the  most  active  of  the  Conservative  and 
Repeal  writers  and  speakers,  undertook  to  procure  sub- 
scriptions for  the  purchase  of  a small  annuity  for  her  ; 
but  at  an  early  meeting  it  w~as  agreed  to  make  one  more 
application  to  Government  for  the  re-grant  to  the  widow 
of  that  pension  so  freely  and  so  worthily  given  to  the 
orphan  of  John  Banim.  The  application  was  made 


322 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


through.  Mr.  E.  B.  Roche,*  the  Member  for  Cork  County, 
and  Sir  Robert  Peel  has  answered  by  saying  that 
the  pension-list  applicable  to  such  a purpose  is  full, 
but  that  he  will  give  £50  from  the  Royal  bounty  now  to 
Mrs.  Banim,  and  will  guarantee  her  £40.  a year  on  the 
first  vacancy. 

“ Such  acts,  so  done,  introduce  an  amenity  and  gener- 
osity into  public  life  ; and  whether  Peel  did  this  from 
feeling  or  policy,  he  deserves  equal  credit,  and  we  thank 
him  for  it.  Nor  are  we  less  pleased  at  another  instance 
of  the  successful  co-operation  of  Irishmen,  differing  in 
creeds  and  minor  politics,  when  a matter  of  national 
duty  or  sentiment  is  involved. 

“ This  was  the  Committee  that  took  up  Mrs.  Banim’s 
case,  and  carried  it  to  this  fortunate  issue  : — . 


Daniel  O’Connell,  Esq.,  M.P. 

John  Anster,  Esq.,  LL.D. 

Smith  O’Brien,  Esq.,  M.P. 

Isaac  Butt,  Esq.,  LL.D. 

Dr.  Kane,  M.R.I.A. 

John  O’Connell,  Esq.,  M.P. 
Charles  Lever,  Esq. 

Torrens  M‘Cullagh,  LL.B. 
Thomas  Davis,  Esq.,  M.R.I.A. 
Samuel  Ferguson,  Esq.,  M.R.I.A. 
Thomas  O’ Hagan,  Esq. 


William  Carleton,  Esq. 

E.  B.  Roche,  Esq.,  M.P. 

Joseph  Lefanu,  Esq. 

Charles  Gavan  Duffy,  Esq. 

J.  Huband  Smith,  Esq.,  M.R.I.A. 
Thomas  MacNevin,  Esq. 

Dr.  Maunsell. 

J.  Grey  Porter,  Esq. 

James  M‘Glashan,  Esq. 

M.  J.  Barry,  Esq.” 


The  county  being,  after  its  fashion,  grateful,  the 
fellow-townsmen  of  John  Banim  resolved  to  manifest 
their  belief  in  the  fact  that  Kilkenny,  the  College, 


* Now  Lord  Fermoy. 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


328 


Windgap,  and  some  other  places  existed,  and  t*hat 
John  Banim  had  done  a little  to  make  them  stand 
before  the  world  as  something  more  than  names  in  an 
atlas.  Accordingly,  in  the  Kilkenny  and  other  Irish 
papers  of  December,  1852,  the  following  announcement 
appeared : — 


“ Banim  Testimonial. 

“ At  a Public  Meeting  of  the  friends  and  admirers  of 
the  genius  of  the  late  John  Banim,  held  in  the  Tholsel, 
Kilkenny,  on  Wednesday,  15th  December,  1852,  the 
Mayor  of  Kilkenny  in  the  Chair,  the  following  resolu- 
tions were  unanimously  adopted  : — 

“ Proposed  by  the  Bev.  Dr.  Browne,  Kilkenny  College, 
and  seconded  by  J.  M Tidmarsh,  Esq.,  T.C. — 

“ 1.  That  it  is  the  opinion  of  this  meeting,  that  a suit- 
able Testimonial  to  the  memory  of  the  late  John  Banim 
be  erected  in  this  his  native  City. 

“ Proposed  by  Robert  Cane,  Esq.,  M.D.,  and  seconded 
by  the  Rev.  James  Graves — 

“2.  That  the  best  mode  of  evincing  our  respect  for 
the  name  of  John  Banim,  would  be  to  erect  (if  the  funds 
admit  thereof)  a Public  Testimonial,  which  would  be, 
at  the  same  time,  ornamental  to  the  City,  and  prove 
of  use  and  convenience  to  the  Public  at  large. 


324 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM, 


Committee. 


The  Most  Noble  the  Marquis  of 
Ormonde,  Kilkenny  Castle. 

Right  Hon.  W.  F.  Tiglie,  D.L., 
Woodstock,  Co.  Kilkenny. 

John  Potter,  Mayor  of  Kilkenny. 

Daniel  Cullen,  Ex-Mayor  of  Kil- 
kenny. 

Rev.  Dr.  Browne,  Kilkenny  Col- 
lege. 

Rev.  James  Graves,  Kilkenny. 

M.  Sullivan,  M.P.,  Kilkenny  City, 
Inch  House,  Kilkenny. 

John  Greene,  M.P.,  Kilkenny  Co. 

William  Shee,  Sergeant-at-Law, 
M.P.,  Kilkenny  County. 

J.  St.  John,  LL.D.,  Nore-View 
House,  Kilkenny. 

H.  Potter,  J.P.,  High  Sheriff  of 
the  City  of  Kilkenny. 

Thomas  Hart,  J.P.,  Windgap  Cot- 
tage. 

Richard  Smith  wick,  J.P.,  Birch- 
field,  County  Kilkenny. 

Abraham  Whyte  Baker,  Ballyto- 
bin,  County  Kilkenny. 

Robert  Cane,  M.D.,  Kilkenny. 

Captain  Helsham,  Kilkenny. 

John  James,  M.  R.  C.  S.  I.,  Kil- 
kenny. 


Z.  Johnson,  M.D.,  &c.,  Kilkenny. 

John  Kearns,  M.  R.  C.  S.,  Kil- 
kenny. 

James  Tidmarsh,  T.C.,  Kilkenny. 

C.  O’ Callaghan,  Kilkenny. 

John  Lawson,  Solicitor,  Kilken- 
ny* 

Michael  Shortall,  Solicitor,  Kil- 
kenny. 

Thomas  Power,  Kilkenny. 

M.  Davis,  Kilkenny. 

A.  Colies,  Kilkenny. 

R.  Molyneux,  Y.S.,  Kilkenny. 

P.  Watters,  Town  Clerk,  Kil- 
kenny. 

J.  Poe,  Solicitor,  Kilkenny. 

T.  Dumphy,  Kilkenny. 

F.  Devereux,  Ringville,  County 
Kilkenny. 

J.  M‘Creery,  St.  John’s  Place, 
Kilkenny. 

James  O’Neill,  John  Street,  Kil- 
kenny. 

John  Campion,  Patrick  Street, 
Kilkenny. 

Thomas  Hewetson,  T.C.,  Rose  Inn 
Street,  Kilkenny. 

Thomas  Cody,  T.C.,  Rose  Inn 
Street,  Kilkenny. 


11  Treasurer — Daniel  Cullen,  Ex-Mayor  of  Kilkenny. 

“ Secretaries — John  Thomas  Campion,  John’s  Bridge;  John  G.  A. 
Prim,  Editor  of  ‘ Kilkenny  Moderator ;’  John  Reville,  Editor  of 
* Kilkenny  Journal.’ 

“ Subscriptions  will  be  received  by  the  Treasurer,  Secretaries,  or  by 
any  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  Committee 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


325 


The  Testimonial  selected  was  a bust  in  marble, 
executed  by  Hogan,  the  resemblance  being  caught,  for 
the  most  part,  from  Mulvany’s  picture,  and  in  the  year 
1854  it  was  placed  in  the  Tholsel  of  Kilkenny. 

We  lately  visited  the  burial-place  of  this  noble-hearted 
Irishman,  and  we  with  difficulty  discovered  it.  He  is 
buried  in  the  grave-yard  of  the  Homan  Catholic  Chapel 
of  St.  John,  Kilkenny,  where  also  are  interred  Dr. 
Burgo,  the  ecclesiastical  historian,  and  the  Hev.  Mr. 
O’Donnell,  the  “ Father  Connell”  who  gave  the  title 
to  Banim’s  last  novel. 

When  Banim  was  dying,  he  said  to  Michael,  “ I have 
only  one  request  now ; lay  me  so  that  I may  be  nearest 
to  my  mother,  with  my  left  side  next  her.”  And  so 
they  buried  him,  more  than  fifteen  years  ago,  and  so 
for  fifteen  years  and  some  months  he  has  lain  without 
stone  or  monument  to  mark  his  grave.  Thomas  Hood 
died  in  1845 ; he  has  a public  monument : Moir,  Black- 
wood’s “ Delta,”  died  in  1851 ; he  has  a public  monu- 
ment. Have  these  examples  of  public  gratitude  no 
teaching  for  Irishmen?  Is  the  only  memorial  of  John 
Banim  to  be  a bust,  quite  unlike  him,  in  the  Tholsel 
of  Kilkenny  ? Must  Michael  Banim  drag,  from  his  own 
small  funds,  the  money  to  purchase  a tombstone  for 
John  Banim’s  Grave? 

Michael  Banim  is  now,  after  many  struggles  with 
care,  the  Postmaster  of  Kilkenny ; and  the  gay  roamer, 
by  mountain  and  stream,  for  whom,  as  Barnes  O’Hara, 


32G 


BIOGRAPHY  OP  JOHN  BANIM. 


Cautli  Flannigan  and  Peggy  Nowlan  selected  that  shirt 
which  “ was  not  a shirt  entirely,”  is  the  grave  official, 
looking  back  upon  the  bright  scenes  of  golden  youth 
as  the  pleasant  dream-land  which  can  be  traversed 
never  more.  Patiently  has  he  borne  his  lot  in  life  ; his 
mind  was  ever  impressed  with  that  truth  contained  in 
the  motto,  Levin  est  verse ; il faut  le  boire ; and  so  he 
passes  on  to  the  quiet  of  a happy  old  age,  looking 
backward  with  a smile,  and  expecting  the  future  with 
the  hope  and  faith  of  a Christian. 


APPENDIX  I 


KILKENNY  COLLEGE. 

Of  its  most  famous  pupils,  the  present  master  of  Kilkenny  College, 
the  Reverend  John  Browne,  LL.D.,  names  the  following  : — 

“The  famous  men  who  have  received  their  education  in  this  foun- 
dation have  been  most  numerous.  On  this  subject  I may  quote  a 
passage  from  Stanihurst,  who,  in  his  historical  work,  “De  Rebus  in 
Hibernia  Gestis  Libri  Quatuor,  ’ ’ p.  25,  again  gratefully  blazons  the 
achievements  of  his  old  master : — 

“ ‘Hie  ludum  aperuit,  nostra,  aetate,  Petrus  Whitus,  cujus  in  totam 
Rempuhlicam  summa  constant  merita.  Ex  illius  enim  schola.,  tam- 
quam  ex  equo  Troico,  homines  litteratissimi  in  reipublicae  lucem  pro- 
dierunt.  Quos  ego  hie  Whiteos,  quos  Quemefordos,  quos  Walsheos, 
quos  Waddingos,  quos  Dormeros,  quos  Shethos,  quos  Garueos,  quos 
Butleros,  quos  Archeros,  quos  Strongos,  quos  Lumbardos,  excellentes 
ingenio  et  doctrine  viros,  commemorare  potuissem,  qui  primis  tem- 
porihus  aetatis  in  ejus  disciplinam  se  tradiderunt.  ’ Amongst  this  array 
of  names,  comprising  those  of  most  of  the  old  gentry  of  the  Pale, 
many  hold  a distinguished  place  in  the  annals  of  literature  and  of  the 
state — Lombard,  the  historian  and  Roman  Catholic  Archbishop  of 
Armagh;  Wadding,  the  annalist;  Dormer,  the  poet  (author  of  ‘The 
Decay  of  Ross,’  in  ballad-royal);  Walsh,  the  translator  of  Camhrensis ; 
and  White,  whose  refutation  of  that  author’s  statements  regarding 
Ireland  has  lately  been  brought  to  light  by  the  labors  of  the  Rev.  M. 
Kelly;  Gerald  Comerford,  an  eminent  lawyer,  Queen  Elizabeth’s 
Attorney  for  Connaught,  and  second  Baron  of  the  Irish  Exchequer ; 
Elias  Shee,  ‘ a gentleman  of  passing  good  wit,  a pleasing,  conceited 


328 


APPENDIX  I. 


companion,  full  of  mirth  without  gall,  who  wrote  in  English  divers 
Sonnets ;’  Butler,  who  translated  Corderius’  1 Book  of  Phrases’  in 
1562 ; Archer  the  Jesuit,  for  whose  actions  the  ‘ Pacata  Hibernia’  may 
be  referred  to ; and,  not  the  least  notable  amongst  these  distinguished 
individuals,  Stanihurst  himself,  who,  besides  his  celebrity  as  a man 
of  letters,  may  also  be  mentioned  as  the  uncle  of  Archbishop  Ussher. 
Amongst  the  names  entered  on  the  Kegister  of  the  School,  as  re- 
founded by  the  first  Duke  of  Ormonde,  I find  those  of  Baldwin,  after- 
wards Provost,  and  a benefactor  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin ; Bishop 
Berkeley,  with  regard  to  whom  it  is  difficult  to  decide  whether  his 
fame  as  a man  of  letters,  or  as  a Christian  philanthropist,  stands 
highest ; his  friend  and  correspondent,  the  patriot  Pryor ; Armaker, 
Archdeacon  of  Armagh  in  1690,  and  author  of  several  works ; Con- 
greve, the  dramatist ; and  Harris,  the  historian.  As  we  draw  nearer 
our  own  day,  many  a famous  name  also  stands  out  proudly  from  the 
throng  of  less  distinguished  alumni  of  Kilkenny  College — Harry  Flood, 
the  orator  of  his  day;  Yelverton  Lord  Avonmore,  and  Sir  Hercules 
Langrishe,  also  luminaries  of  the  Irish  House  of  Commons ; Michael 
Cox,  Archbishop  of  Cashel ; Hugh  Carlton,  Solicitor  - General ; and, 
though  last,  not  least,  John  Banim.  Scions  of  the  noble  Houses  of 
Desart,  Inchiquin,  Colooney,  De  Yesci,  Waterford,  Llandaff,  Morning- 
ton,  Lismore,  Charlemont,  Haw^arden,  Ashbrook,  Bosse,  Howth, 
Tliomond,  Clifden,  Boyle  (ancestor  to  the  Duke  of  Devonshire),  Ban- 
don,  Shannon,  &c.,  appear  amongst  the  names  entered  on  the  Regis- 
ter ; in  which  also  will  be  found  frequent  mention  of  the  families  of 
note  and  mark  in  this  and  the  surrounding  counties — viz. , Cavanagh, 
Staples,  Cuffe,  Cooley,  Penefather,  Vandeleur,  Wemys,  Flood,  Lang- 
rishe, Bryan,  Le  Hunte,  Butler,  Cramer -Coghill,  Wheeler,  Izod, 
Barker,  Greene,  Warburton,  St.  George,  & c.  Whilst  amongst  the 
names  by  some  chance  omitted  therefrom,  may  be  enumerated  the 
far-famed  Dean  Swift,  and  Farquhar,  the  dramatist,  who  are  known 
to  have  received  their  education  at  Kilkenny  College.  Sir  Richard 
Steele,  the  friend  and  compeer  of  Addison,  whose  father  was  private 
secretary  to  the  Duke  of  Ormonde,  it  is  likely,  also  spent  his  early 


APPENDIX  I. 


329 


years  at  this  School.  The  names  now  enumerated  fully  justify  the 
remark  of  Banim,  that  it  was  after  the  restoration  of  its  original 
charter  ‘ this  seminary  rose  to  the  height  of  its  fame,  and  that  young 
Irish  noblemen  and  gentlemen  crowded  its  classes  for  the  most  ap- 
proved preparation  for  University  honors.  It  might  be  called  the 
then  Eton  of  the  sister-country.’  Dr.  Ledwich,  in  his  History  of  Kil- 
kenny, says  of  the  institution — ‘This  School  has  had  a succession  of 
eminent  masters,  has  produced  men  of  great  learning,  and  is  justly 
esteemed  the  first  School  for  the  education  of  youth  in  this  kingdom.’ 
The  names  of  the  masters  since  the  Duke  of  Ormonde’s  foundation 
are  as  follow  : — 


1670.  Edward  Jones,  D.D. 
1680.  Henry  Byder,  D.D. 
1684.  Edward  Hinton,  D.D. 
1702.  William  Andrews,  D.D. 
1714.  Edward  Lewis,  A.M. 
1743.  Thos.  Hewetson,  LL.D. 


1776.  Richard  Pack,  A.M. 
1781.  John  Ellison,  D.D. 
1793.  Antony  Pack,  D.D. 
1810.  A.  O’ Callaghan,  A.M. 
1820.  William  Baillie,  LL.D. 
1842.  John  Browne,  LL.D. 


“Amongst  these,  Dr.  Edward  Jones  was  afterwards  made  Bishop 
of  Cloyne,  and  Dr.  Ryder,  Bishop  of  Killaloe ; but  alas ! ‘ tempora 
mutantur’ — the  masters  are  no  longer  made  Bishops ; our  great  men 
and  our  little  men  are  not  satisfied  with  education  in  Ireland,  and  the 
lamentable  consequence,  obvious  to  all,  is  an  unlearned  and  mentally 
dwindled  race,  instead  of  the  giants  of  those  days  when  Ireland  edu- 
cated her  own  sons.  The  earlier  portion  of  the  Register,  which  I have 
caused  to  be  transcribed  for  the  library  of  the  Society,  commences 
with  October,  1684,  and  ends  with  July  27th,  1688;  after  this  occurs 
a lacuna  of  nearly  three  years — an  omission  which  is  explained  by  the 
heading  prefixed  to  the  next  entries — viz.,  ‘The  names  of  such  as 
were  admitted  into  His  Grace  the  Duke  of  Ormonde’s  Schoole  at  Kil- 
kenny since  the  Warre  ended  in  Ireland  in  the  year  1691.’  The  first 
entry  of  this  portion  is  dated  January  20th,  1691-2,  and  the  series  is 
complete  up  to  August  6th,  1716,  from  which  date  no  entry  occurs 
until  the  year  1743,  from  whence  the  Register  is  continued  in  regular 


330 


APPENDIX  I. 


series  up  to  the  present  day.  There  are  also  some  notices  of  the 
pupils  who  left  the  School  for  College,  or  to  enter  into  various  profes- 
sions, &c. , which  are  very  curious.  These  entries  commence  with  the 
date  1684,  and  end  with  the  year  1704;  since  which  period,  with  the 
exception  of  a few  entries  commencing  1743,  this  portion  of  the  Regis- 
ter has  been  discontinued.  We  learn,  on  the  authority  of  Ledwich, 
that  there  formerly  existed,  in  Primate  Marsh’s  Library,  Dublin,  a 
book  of  poems,  entitled  ‘ Sacri  Lusus,’  by  the  young  gentlemen  of  the 
College  of  Kilkenny,  which,  I am  sorry  to  say,  is  not  now  to  be  found 
there.  I may  also  mention,  in  conclusion,  that  I have  heard  from 
Mr.  B.  Scott,  Sr.,  of  this  city,  an  interesting  anecdote  connecting 
Dean  Swift’s  name  with  Kilkenny  College,  which  is  as  follows : — 
When  the  old  College  was  pulled  down,  Dr.  Ellison  was  master  of  the 
School.  The  oak  timber -work  was  purchased  by  his  (Mr.  Scott’s) 
uncle,  the  father  of  the  late  Mr.  Martin  Scott,  of  Kilkenny,  who 
therewith  erected  his  tenement  in  High  Street.  After  the  work  was 
finished,  it  came  to  Dr.  Ellison’s  knowledge  that  the  name  of  ‘Jona- 
than Swift’  existed,  carved,  in  school-boy  fashion,  on  some  part  of 
the  woodwork.  Anxious  to  obtain  this  treasure,  Dr.  Ellison  obtained 
permission  from  Mr.  Scott  to  pull  down  that  part  of  the  work  in 
which  the  particular  board  had  been  used;  but  after  considerable 
progress  in  the  work  of  demolition,  Mrs.  Scott  declared  that  she  could 
no  longer  suffer  the  business  of  the  establishment  to  be  interrupted, 
and  put  a stop  to  the  search.  I understand  that  the  timber- work  of 
the  house  erected  at  that  period  remains,  the  frontage  only  having 
been  rebuilt  within  a few  years  back.  If  such  prove  to  be  the  case, 
I will  use  every  exertion  towards  the  recovery  of  this  interesting 
relic.”  ® 

* See  a most  interesting  paper  entitled  ‘‘Kilkenny  College.”  By  the  Rev. 
John  Browne,  LL.  D.,  in  the  “Transactions  of  the  Kilkenny  Archaeological 
Society”  for  the  year  1851.  Vol.  I.,  part  ii.(  p.  221. 


APPENDIX  II. 


DAMON  AND  PYTHIAS. 

To  many  of  our  readers  this  tragedy  and  its  plot  must  be  quite  a3 
little  known  as  “The  Celt’s  Paradise.”  It  is  as  follows  : — • 

The  Senate  of  Syracuse  chooses  as  its  President,  Philistias , a tool 
of  Dionysius,  an  ambitious  soldier.  Dionysius  directs  another  of  his 
creatures,  Procles,  to  induce  the  populace,  by  divination,  to  name  him 
ruler,  and  he  succeeds.  Damocles , another  tool,  urges  Dionysius  to  re- 
venge himself  upon  Damon,  who  is  a friend  to  the  old  laws  of  Syra- 
cuse, and  a foe  of  the  Dictator ; and  as  the  soldiers  return  from  storm- 
ing and  plundering  the  citadel,  they  encounter  Damon,  who,  incited 
by  a love  of  country,  calls  them  “obstreperous  traitors,”  and  re- 
proaches Procles,  as — • 

1 1 Thou  most  contemptible  and  meanest  tool 
That  ever  tyrant  used.” 

The  soldiers  are  about  to  kill  Damon  for  this  bold  speaking,  when 
his  friend,  the  warrior  Pythias,  rushes  in  and  saves  him,  crying — • 

Pyth.  Back,  on  your  lives ! 

Cowards,  damn’d,  treacherous  cowards,  back,  I say ! 

Do  you  know  me  ? Look  upon  me  : Do  you  know 
This  honest  sword  I brandish  ? You  have  seen  it 
Among  the  ranks  of  Carthage.  Would  you  now 
Taste  its  shrewd  coldness  in  your  quaking  selves  ! 

Back  ! back  ! I say.  He  hath  his  armor  on — 

I am  his  sword,  shield,  helm  ; I but  enclose 
Myself,  and  my  own  heart,  and  heart’s  blood,  when 
I thus  encompass  him — 

Damon.  False-hearted  cravens ! 

We  are  but  two — my  Pythias,  my  halved  heart ! — 


332 


APPENDIX  II. 


My  Pythias,  and  myself ; hut  dare  come  on, 

Ye  hirelings  of  a tyrant ! dare  advance 
A foot,  or  raise  an  arm,  or  bend  a brow, 

And  ye  shall  learn  what  two  such  arms  can  do 
Among  a thousand  of  ye.  My  good  friend, 

The  gods  have  sent  thee  to  me — Who  had  deem’d 

To  find  thee  here  from  Agrigentum  ! [Soldiers  advance . 

Pyth.  Off! 

Off,  villains,  off ! — Each  for  the  other  thus, 

And  in  that  other,  for  his  dearer  self. 

Why,  Procles,  art  thou  not  ashamed, — for  I 
Have  seen  thee  do  good  work  in  battle  time — 

Art  not  ashamed,  here  on  a single  man 
To  rush  in  coward  numbers  ? Fie  upon  thee  ! 

I took  thee  for  a soldier. 

Pro.  For  thy  sake, 

Who  art  a warrior  like  ourselves,  we  spare  him. 

’Twas  a good  star  of  his  that  led  thee  hither 
From  Agrigentum,  to  lift  up  thine  arm 
In  the  defence  of  that  long  robe  of  peace 
Wherein  he  wraps  his  stern  philosophy. 

Come,  teach  him  better  manners.  Soldiers,  on. 

Pythias  has  come  to  Syracuse  for  the  purpose  of  wedding  Calanthe ; 
he  informs  Damon  of  this  circumstance,  and  it  is  agreed  that  he  shall 
attend  the  nuptials  of  his  friend. 

The  Senate  debate  as  to  the  guilt  of  Dionysius , and  the  punishment 
to  he  inflicted  for  his  attack  on  the  citadel.  The  faction  in  the 
assembly  devoted  to  the  traitor’s  interests  declare  that,  for  his  great 
services  to  the  State  on  former  occasions,  he  shall  be  pardoned  ; and, 
proceeding  yet  more  boldly,  it  is  proposed  to  the  Senate,  and  agreed 
by  them,  that  he  shall  be  King.  Dionysius  had  surrounded  the  build- 
ing with  his  most  trusted  soldiers ; he  knew  that  Damon  would  oppose 
his  election,  and  this  was  to  be  the  great  day  of  his  triumph.  He  had 
wrought  out  the  triumph — • 

1 1 In  all  that  biting  bitterness  of  heart 
Which  clings,  and  gnaws,  by  inches,  to  its  object, 

More  keen,  because  a first  essay  hath  failed, 


APPENDIX  II. 


333 


In  shame  and  suffering,  failed,  thus  have  I sped 
My  work,  in  silence,  on.  It  did  become 
A thought  inwoven  with  my  inmost  being.  * * 

Damon  had  been  his  chiefest  opponent  in  all  his  schemes,  and 
against  him  were  the  most  strict  precautions  taken.  When  the 
Senate  are  upon  the  point  of  decreeing  that  Dionysius  shall  be  King,  a 
noise  is  heard  without  the  Senate-house,  and  Damon , having  broken 
through  the  guards,  rushes  in  and  cries,  referring  to  the  proposed 
decree — 

Damon.  And  all ! are  all  content  ? 

A nation’s  rights  betray’d, 

And  all  content ! 0 slaves  ! 0 parricides  ! 

Oh,  by  the  brightest  hope  a just  man  has, 

I blush  to  look  around  and  call  you  men. 

What ! with  your  own  free  willing  hands  yield  up 
The  ancient  fabric  of  your  constitution, 

To  be  a garrison,  a common  barrack, 

A common  guard-house,  and  for  common  cut-throats ! 

What ! will  ye  all  combine  to  tie  a sjtone 

Each  to  each  others’  necks,  and  drown  like  dogs 

Within  the  tide  of  time,  and  never  float 

To  after  ages,  or,  at  best,  but  float 

A buoyant  pestilence  ? Can  ye  but  dig 

Your  own  dark  graves,  creep  into  them,  and  die  ? 

Third  S.  I have  not  sanction’d  it. 

Fourth  S.  Nor  I. 

Fifth  S.  Nor  I. 

Damon.  Oh  ! thanks  for  these  few  voices ! But,  alas ! 

How  lonely  do  they  sound ! Do  you  not  all 
Start  up  at  once,  and  cry  out  liberty  ? 

Are  you  so  bound  in  fetters  of  the  mind, 

That  there  you  sit  as  if  you  were  yourselves 

Incorporate  with  the  marble  ? Syracusans  ! 

But  no  ! I will  not  rail,  nor  chide,  nor  curse  ye  ! 

I will  implore  you,  fellow-countrymen, 

With  blinded  eyes,  and  weak  and  broken  speech, 

I will  implore  you — Oh,  I am  weak  in  words  ! 

But  I could  bring  such  advocates  before  you ! — 


334 


APPENDIX  II. 


Your  fathers’  sacred  images ; old  men 

That  have  been  grandsires ; women  with  their  children, 

Caught  up  in  fear  and  hurry,  in  their  arms — 

And  those  old  men  should  lift  their  shivering  voices, 

And  palsied  hands — and  those  affrighted  mothers 
Should  hold  their  innocent  infants  forth,  and  ask, 

Could  you  make  slaves  of  them  ! 

All  these  appeals  are  vain ; the  Senate  kneel  to  the  usurper,  and 
salute  him  King.  Enraged  by  this  act,  Damon  runs  upon  him,  at- 
tempts to  stab  him,  is  baffled  in  the  deed,  and  is  condemned  to  die. 
ImcuIIus  flies  to  the  Temple  of  Hymen,  where  the  marriage  of  Pythias 
and  Calantlie  is  being  celebrated.  He  whispers  in  the  bridegroom’s  ear 
the  fate  of  his  friend,  and,  pale  with  terror,  Pythias  abandons  Calanthe 
even  at  the  altar,  and  hastens  to  the  rescue  or  assistance  of  Damon. 

Damon  had  entreated  that  Dionysius  would  liberate  him  but  for  six 
hours,  that  he  might  bid  his  wife  and  child  farewell.  The  entreaty 
was  refused ; but  at  the  request  of  Pythias , and  upon  his  offering  to 
take  the  place  of  his  friend,  as  a hostage  for  his  return  within  the  six 
hours,  Damon  is  permitted  to  go  forth ; and  it  is  agreed  that  if  he  re- 
turn not  before  the  expiration  of  the  sixth  hour,  Pythias  shall  die. 
Pythias  is  chained  and  placed  in  the  dungeon,  and  Damon  hastens  to 
his  villa,  accompanied  by  Lucullus.  Whilst  he  is  bidding  adieu  to  his 
wife  and  child,  Lucullus , hoping  to  delay  his  return  beyond  the  six 
hours  prescribed,  kills  his  horse.  Damon,  committing  his  wife  and 
child  to  the  care  of  the  gods,  rushes  forth  from  the  house,  eager  to 
mount  his  steed,  and  hasten  to  release  his  friend  from  chains  and 
prison.  He  cries  : — 

'Tis  o’er,  Lucullus.  Bring  thou  forth  my  horse. 

I have  stayed  too  long,  Lucullus,  and  my  speed 
Must  leave  the  winds  behind  me.  By  the  gods, 

The  sun  is  rushing  down  the  west ! 

Luc.  My  Lord — 

Damon.  Why  dost  thou  tremble  ? Fetch  the  color  back 
Into  thy  cheek,  man,  nor  let  thy  weak  knees 
Knock  on  each  other  in  their  cowardice  ! 


APPENDIX  II. 


335 


Time  flies — be  brief — go  bring  my  horse  to  me ! 

Be  thou  as  swift  as  speech,  or  as  my  heart  is  ! 

Luc.  My  Lord — 

Damon . Why,  slave,  dost  hear  me  ? Bring  him  here — 

My  horse,  I say  ! The  hour  is  past  already 
Whereon  I bade  old  Neucles  summon  me. 

Luc.  My  generous  master,  do  not  slay  me  ! 

Damon.  Slave ! 

Art  mad  ? or  dost  thou  mock  me  in  the  last 
And  fearfullest  extremity  ? — Yet  you  speak  not ! 

Luc.  You  were  ever  kind  and  merciful,  nor  yet 
Commended  me  unto  the  cruel  whip, 

And  I did  love  you  for  it ! 

Damon.  Where’s  my  horse  ? 

Luc.  When  I beheld  the  means  of  saving  you, 

I could  not  hold  my  hand — my  heart  was  in  it, 

And  in  my  heart,  the  hope  of  giving  life 

And  liberty  to  Damon ; and 

Damon.  Go  on  ! I am  listening  to  thee  ! 

Luc.  And  in  the  hope  to  save  you,  I slew  your  steed ! 

Damon.  Almighty  heavens ! 

Luc.  Forgive  me ! 

Damon.  I am  standing  here  to  see  if  the  great  gods 
Will  with  their  lightning  execute  my  prayer 
Upon  thee  ! But  thy  punishment  be  thine  ! 

I’ll  tear  thee  into  pieces  ! [ Seizes  him. 

Luc.  Spare  me  ! spare  me  ! 

I saved  thy  life — oh  do  not  thou  take  mine  ! 

Damon.  My  friend ! my  friend ! Oh  that  the  word  would  kill 
thee ! 

Pythias  is  slain  ! — his  blood  is  on  my  soul ! 

He  cries,  Where  art  thou,  Damon  ? Damon,  where  art  thou  ? 

And  Damon’s  here  ! — The  axe  is  o’er  his  neck, — 

And  in  his  blood  I’m  deluged ! 

Luc.  Spare  me ! spare  me  ! 

Damon,  A spirit  cries,  “ Kevenge  and  Sacrifice  V* 

I’ll  do  it ! I’ll  do  it !— Come ! 

Imc.  Where  should  I go  ? 

Damon.  To  the  eternal  river  of  the  dead ! 

The  way  is  shorter  than  to  Syracuse — 


336 


APPENDIX  II. 


'Tis  only  far  as  yonder  yawning  gulf. 

I’ll  throw  tliee  with  one  swing  to  Tartarus, 

And  follow  after  thee  ! — Nay,  slave,  no  struggling ! 

Pythias  is  grown  impatient ! His  red  ghost 
Starts  from  the  ground,  and  with  a bloody  hand 
Waves  to  the  precipice  ! 

Luc.  Have  mercy ! 

Damon.  Call  for  mercy  on  the  furies — not  on  me  ! 

[Exit  Damon  dragging  Lucullus  with  him. 

During  the  six  hours,  Dionysius,  disguised,  visits  Pythias  in  his  dun- 
geon, and  tells  him  that  soldiers  have  been  sent  forward  to  stay  tlia 
return  of  Damon , and  endeavors  to  induce  him  to  escape  from  tha 
prison  ; Nidas , the  father  of  Pythias,  and  his  own  Calanthe  are  intro- 
duced, each  imploring  him  to  go  forth,  but  he  is  firm  to  his  trust  in 
Damon's  honor.  The  following  is  the  closing  scene  of  the  fifth  and 
concluding  act,  and  is  extremely  effective ; the  characters  are  Calanthe , 
Dionysius,  Pythias: — 

The  gales  of  the  prison  are  flung  open , and  Pythias  is  discovered.  lie 
advances. 

Cal.  Pythias ! 

Pyth.  Calanthe  here  ! — My  poor  fond  girl ! 

Thou  art  the  first  to  meet  me  here  at  the  block, 

Thou  wilt  be  the  last  to  leave  me  at  the  grave  ! 

How  strangely  things  go  on  in  this  bad  world ! 

This  was  my  wedding-day  : but  for  the  bride, 

I did  not  think  of  such  a one  as  death  ! 

I deemed  I should  have  gone  to  sleep  to-night, 

This  very  night — not  on  the  earth’s  cold  lap, 

But  with  as  soft  a bosom  for  my  pillow, 

And  with  as  true  and  fond  a heart  throb  in  it, 

To  lull  me  to  my  slumber,  as  e’er  yet 
Couch’d  the  repose  of  love. — It  was,  indeed, 

A blissful  sleep  to  wish  for ! 

Cal.  Oh,  my  Pythias,  he  yet  may  come ! 

Pyth.  Calanthe,  no  ! — Remember 
That  Dionysius  hath  prevented  it. 


APPENDIX  II. 


337 


Cal.  That  was  an  idle  tale  of  this  old  man, 

And  he  may  yet  return. 

Pyth.  May  yet  return ! 

Speak  ! — how  is  this  ? Keturn  ! — Oh  life  ! how  strong 
Thy  love  is  in  the  hearts  of  dying  men ! 

Thou  art  true,  he  did’st  say  the  tyrant  would  prevent 
His  coming  hack  to  Syracuse. 

Dion.  I wrong’d  him. 

Pyth.  Ha  ! were  it  possible  ! — may  he  yet  come  ! 

Cal.  Into  the  sinews  of  the  horse  that  hears  him 
Put  swiftness,  gods ! — let  him  outrace  and  shame  « 
The  galloping  of  clouds  upon  the  storm  ! 

Blow  breezes  with  him ; lend  every  feeble  aid 
Unto  his  motion  ! — and  thou,  thrice-solid  earth, 

Forget  thy  immutable  fixedness — become 
Under  his  feet  like  flowing  water,  and 
Hither  flow  with  him ! 

Pyth.  I have  taken  in 
All  the  horizon’s  vast  circumference 
That  in  the  glory  of  the  setting  sun 
Opens  its  wide  expanse,  yet  do  I see 
No  signal  of  his  coming  ! — Nay,  ’tis  likely — 

Oh,  no — he  could  not ! it  is  impossible  ! 

Cal.  I say,  he  is  false  ! He  is  a murderer  ! 

He  will  not  come  ! The  traitor  doth  prefer 
Life — ignominious,  dastard  life  ! — Thou  minister 
Of  light,  and  measurer  of  eternity, 

In  this  great  purpose,  stay  thy  going  down, 

Great  sun  ! behind  the  confines  of  the  world  ! 

On  yonder  purple  mountains  make  thy  stand  ; 

For  while  thine  eye  is  opened  on  mankind, 

Hope  will  abide  within  thy  blessed  beams. 

They  dare  not  do  the  murder  in  thy  presence  ! 

Alas  ! all  heedless  of  my  frantic  cry, 

He  plunges  down  the  precipice  of  heaven  ! 

Pythias  ! — oh,  Pythias  ! 

Pyth.  I could  have  borne  to  die, 

Unmoved,  by  Dionysius — but  to  be  torn 
Green  from  existence  by  the  friend  I loved — 

Thus  from  the  blossoming  and  beauteous  tree 


338 


APPENDIX  II. 


Bent  by  the  treachery  of  him  I trusted ! 

No,  no  ! I wrong  thee,  Damon,  by  that  half  thought. 
Shame  on  the  foul  suspicion  ! He  hath  a wife 
And  ohild,  who  cannot  live  on  earth  without  him, 

And  Heaven  has  flung  some  obstacle  in  his  way 
To  keep  him  back,  and  lets  me  die,  who  am 
Less  worthy,  and  the  fitter. 

Pro.  Pythias,  advance! 

Cal.  No,  no  ! Why  should  he  yet  ? It  is  not  yet — 
By  all  the  gods,  there  are  two  minutes  only  ! 

Pro.  Take  a last  farewell  of  your  mistress,  Sir, 

And  look  your  last  upon  the  setting  sun — 

And  do  both  quickly,  for  your  hour  comes  on  ! 

Pyth.  Come  here,  Calanthe  ! closer  to  me  yet  !— 

Ah  ! what  a cold  transition  it  will  be 

From  this  warm  touch,  all  full  of  life  and  beauty, 

Unto  the  clammy  mould  of  the  deep  grave  ! 

I pr’ythee,  my  Calanthe,  when  I am  gone, 

If  thou  should’ st  e’er  behold  my  hapless  friend, 

Do  not  upbraid  him  ! This,  my  lovely  one  ! 

Is  my  last  wish.  Bemember  it ! 

Cal.  Hush ! hush  ! Stand  back  there  ! 

Pyth.  Take  her,  ye  eternal  gods  ! 

Out  of  my  arms  into  your  own.  Befriend  her  ; 

And  let  life  glide  on  in  gentleness, 

For  she  is  gentle,  and  doth  merit  it. 

Cal.  I think  I see  it 

Pro.  Lead  her  from  the  scaffold  ! 

Pyth.  Arria,  receive  her  ! Yet,  one  kiss.  Farewell ! 
Thrice — thrice — farewell ! I am  ready,  Sir. 

Cal.  Forbear ! 

There  is  a minute  left.  Look  there  ! — look  there  ! 

But  ’tis  so  far  off,  and  the  evening  shades 

Thicken  so  fast,  there  are  no  other  eyes 

But  mine  can  catch  it.  Yet,  ’tis  there  ! I see  it — 

A shape  as  yet  so  vague  and  questionable 
’Tis  nothing — just  about  to  change  and  take 
The  faintest  form  of  something  ! 

Pyth.  Sweetest  love ! 

Damo.  Your  duty,  officer. 


APPENDIX  II. 


339 


Cal.  I will  not  quit  him 
Until  ye  prove  I see  it  not ! No  force 
Till  then  shall  separate  us. 

Damo.  Tear  them  asunder ! 

Arria,  conduct  your  daughter  to  her  home. 

Cal.  Oh  send  me  not  away  ! Pythias,  thine  arms ! — 

Stretch  out  thine  arms,  and  keep  me  ! See  ! it  comes ! 
Barbarians  ! — murderers  ! — oh  ! yet  a moment — 

Yet  but  one  pulse — one  heave  of  breath  ! 0 Heavens  ! 

[*$7^  swoons , and  is  carried  away  by  Arria  and  Guards. 
Pyth.  [To  the  Executioner.]  There  is  no  pang  in  thy  deep 
wedge  of  steel 

After  that  parting.  Nay,  Sir,  you  may  spare 
Yourself  the  pains  to  fit  me  for  the  block. 

Damon,  I do  forgive  thee  ! I but  ask 
Some  tears  unto  my  ashes. 

[A  distant  shout  heard — Pythias  leaps  upon  the  scaffold. 
By  the  gods ! 

A horse  and  horseman  ! Far  upon  the  hill 
They  wTave  their  hats,  and  he  returns  it ; yet 
I know  him  not.  His  horse  is  at  the  stretch. 

Why  should  they  shout  as  he  comes  on  ? It  is — 

No  ! that  was  too  unlike — But  there,  now — there ! 

Oh,  life  ! I scarcely  dare  to  wish  for  thee  ; 

And  yet — That  jutting  rock  has  hid  him  from  me. 

No  ! — Let  it  not  be  Damop. ! He  has  a wife 
And  child.  Gods  ! keep  him  back. 

Damon.  Where  is  he  ? 

[He  rushes  in , and  stands  for  a moment  looking  round . 
Ha ! He  is  alive ! untouched ! [Laughing  hysterically . 

Ha ! ha  ! ha  ! [Falls  upon  the  scaffold. 
Fyth.  The  gods  do  know  I could  have  died  for  him  ! 

And  yet  I dared  to  doubt ! — I dared  to  breathe 
The  half-utter’ d blasphemy" ! 

He  faints  ! How  thick 

This  wreath  of  burning  moisture  on  his  brow ! 

His  face  is  black  with  toil ; his  swelling  bulk 
Heaves  with  swift  pantings.  Damon  ! my  dear  friend. 

Damon.  Where  am  I ? Have  I fallen  from  my  horse 
That  I am  stunn’d,  and  on  my  head  I feel 


340 


APPENDIX  II. 


A weight  of  thickening  blood.  What  has  befallen  me  ? 

The  horrible  confusion  of  a dream 
Is  yet  upon  my  sight.  For  mercy’s  sake, 

Stay  me  not  back.  He  is  about  to  die — 

Pythias  ! my  friend.  Unloose  me,  villains ! or 
You  will  find  the  might  of  madness  in  mine  arm  ! 

[Seeing  Pytiiias.]  Speak  to  me — let  me  hear  thy  voice ! 

Pyth.  My  friend ! 

Damon.  It  pierced  my  brain,  and  rushed  into  my  heart ! 
There’s  lightning  in  it ! That’s  the  scaffold — there 
The  block,  the  axe,  the  executioner ! 

And  here  he  lives  ! I have  him  in  my  soul  l 
[Embracing  Pythias.]  Ha ! ha  ! ha  ! 

Pyth.  Damon  1 
Damon.  Ha  ! ha  1 

I can  but  laugh  ! — I cannot  speak  to  thee  l 
I can  but  play  the  maniac,  and  laugh  1 
Thy  hand  ! Oh  let  me  grasp  thy  manly  hand  ! 

It  is  an  honest  one,  and  so  is  mine  l 

They  are  fit  to  clasp  each  other ! — Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Pyth.  Would  that  my  death  could  have  preserved  thee  ! 
Damon.  Pythias ! 

Even  in  the  very  crisis  to  have  come — • 

To  have  hit  the  very  forehead  of  Old  Time  ! 

By  heavens  ! had  I arrived  an  hour  before, 

I should  not  feel  this  agony  of  joy — 

This  triumph  over  Dionysius ! 

Ha  ! ha ! — But  did’st  thou  doubt  me  ? Come,  thou  did’st— 
Own  it,  and  I’ll  forgive. 

Pyth.  For  a moment. 

Damon.  Oh  that  false  slave  ! — Pythias,  he  slew  my  horse, 
In  the  base  thought  to  save  me ! — I would  have  killed  him, 
And  to  a precipice  was  dragging  him, 

When,  from  the  very  brink  of  the  abyss, 

I did  behold  a traveler  afar, 

Bestriding  a good  steed.  I rushed  upon  him, 

Choking  with  desperation,  and  yet,  loud 
In  shrieking  anguish,  I commanded  him 
Down  from  his  saddle.  He  denied  me — but 
Would  I then  be  denied  ? As  hungry  tigers 


APPENDIX  II. 


341 


Clutch  their  poor  prey,  I sprung  upon  his  throat. 

Thus,  thus  I had  him,  Pythias.  “Come,  your  horse  ! 

Your  horse ! your  horse  l”  I cried.  Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Dion.  Damon! 

Damon.  I am  here  upon  the  scaffold ! Look  at  me ! 

I am  standing  on  my  throne — as  proud  a one 
As  yon  illumined  mountain,  where  the  sun 
Makes  his  last  stand.  Let  him  look  on  me  too  ; 

He  never  did  behold  a spectacle 

More  full  of  natural  glory.  Death  is — Ha ! 

All  Syracuse  starts  up  upon  her  hills, 

And  lifts  her  hundred  thousand  hands  ! She  shouts ! 

Hark ! how  she  shouts.  Oh,  Dionysius  ! 

When  wert  thou  in  thy  life  hailed  with  a peal 
Of  hearts  and  hands  like  that  one  ? Shout  again ! 

Again  ! until  the  mountains  echo  you, 

And  the  great  sea  joins  in  that  mighty  voice, 

And  old  Enceladus,  the  son  of  Earth, 

Stirs  in  his  mighty  caverns  ! Tell  me,  slaves ! 

Where  is  your  tyrant  ? Let  me  see  him  now  ! 

Why  stands  he  hence  aloof  ? Where  is  your  master  ? 

What  has  become  of  Dionysius  ? 

I would  behold  and  laugh  at  him ! 

[Dionysius  advances  between  Damon  and  Pythias, 
and  throws  off  his  disguise. 

Dion.  Behold  me ! 

Damon  and  Pyth.  How  ! 

Dion.  Stay  your  admiration  for  awhile, 

Till  I have  spoken  my  commandment  here. — 

Go,  Damocles,  and  bid  a herald  cry 

Wide  through  the  city,  from  the  eastern  gate 

Unto  the  most  remote  extremity, 

That  Dionysius,  tyrant  as  he  is, 

Gives  back  his  life  to  Damon ! 

The  parting  scenes  between  Damon  and  his  wife  Hmnione  and  his 
child  are  exquisitely  wrought  up,  and  have  ever  told  upon  even  the 
most  fastidious  audiences.  The  power  is  not  alone  that  of  situation ; 
the  language  is  poetical,  and  in  no  point  strained  or  affected.  The 


342 


APPENDIX  II. 


scenes  between  the  lovers,  Pythias  and  Calanlhe , are  very  poetical,  and 
marked  by  that  intensity  of  passion  so  powerfully  employed  in  “The 
Fetches"  and  in  “The  Nowlans."  The  following  passages  may  be 
placed  beside  Claude  Melnotte' s description  of  the  imaginary  “ vale"  to 
which  he  would  convey  his  mistress.  Could  Bulwer  Lytton  have 
had  this  half-forgotten  tragedy  in  mind  when  writing  1 ‘ The  Lady  of 
Lyons?" 

A Chamber  in  Arria’s  House. 

Enter  Pythias  and  Calanthe. 

Pyth.  So,  my  Calanthe,  you  would  waste  the  moon  of  Hymen 
in  this  lonely  spot  ? 

Cal.  In  sooth 

I would,  for  ’tis  the  fairest  place  in  Sicily — 

A dell,  made  of  green  beauty  ; with  its  shrubs, 

Of  aromatic  sweetness,  growing  up 

The  rugged  mountain’s  sides,  as  cunningly 

As  the  nice  structure  of  a little  nest 

Built  by  two  loving  nightingales.  The  wind 

That  comes  there,  full  of  rudeness  from  the  sea, 

Is  lulled  into  a balmy  breath  of  peace 
The  moment  that  it  enters ; and  ’ tis  said 
By  our  Sicilian  shepherds  that  their  songs 
Have  in  this  place  a wilder  melody. 

The  mountains  all  about  it  are  the  haunts 
Of  many  a fine  romantic  memory  ! 

High  towers  old  iEtna,  with  his  feet  deep  clad 
In  the  green  sandals  of  the  freshful  spring — 

His  sides  arrayed  in  winter,  and  his  front 
Shooting  aloft  the  everlasting  flame. 

On  the  right  hand  is  that  great  cave  in  which 
Huge  Polyphemus  dwelt,  between  whose  v.ast 
Colossal  limbs  the  artful  Grecian  stole. 

On  the  other  side 

Is  Galatea’ s dainty  dressing-room, 

Wrought  in  the  living  marble ; and  within 
Is  seen  the  fountain  where  she  used  to  twine 
The  ringlets  on  her  neck  that  did  ensnare 
The  melancholy  Cyclop. — But  what  care  you, 


APPENDIX  II. 


348 


A soldier,  for  such  fantasies  ? I know 
A way  that  better  shall  persuade  you  to 
That  place  for  our  sweet  marriage  residence. 

There  Damon  hath  his  villa.  Ha  ! you  seem 

Determined  by  the  fast  proximity 

Of  such  a friendship,  more  than  all  my  love. 

Pyth.  Does  Damon  dwell  there  ? 

Cal . No  ; his  Hermione 

And  his  young  hoy — oh  ! ’tis  a beauteous  child  !— 
Are  sent  there  from  the  city’s  noxious  air, 

And  he  doth  visit  them  whene’er  the  state 
Gives  him  brief  respite.  Tell  me,  Pythias, 

Shall  we  not  see  the  Hymeneal  moon 
Glide  through  the  blue  heavens  there  ? 

Pyth.  My  own  adored  one  ! 

If  thou  shouldst  bid  me  sail  away  with  thee 
To  seek  the  isles  of  the  Hesperides, 

I would,  with  such  a pilot,  spread  my  sail 
Beyond  the  trophies  of  great  Hercules, 

Making  thine  eyes  my  cynosure  ! 


APPENDIX  III. 


SYLLA. 

This  tragedy,  “Sylla,”  is  neither  is  poetic  nor  so  well  adapted  fot 
representation  as  the  earlier  composition,  “ Damon  and  Pythias.” 
Indeed  its  chief  interest  is  the  situation  in  the  fifth  act,  in  which 
Sylla  abandons  his  dignity  and  power.  He  discovers  that  his  daugh- 
ter, Phryne,  is  secretly  wedded  to  his  enemy,  young  Julius  Marius, 
and  with  this  enemy — yet  the  husband  of  his  child — in  chains,  power- 
less, and  his  prisoner,  Sylla  is  thus,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  fourth 
act,  represented  soliloquizing  in  the  hall  of  his  palace  : — 

Slaves,  crawling  slaves  ! what  would  they  do,  which  they 
Might  not  have  left  undone  ? Eradicate  ? 

Why  plant  and  nurture  ? — with  their  proper  hands  ? 

They  wait  a time  ! what  time  ? on  Sylla  ? No — 

By  Mars,  they  dare  not ! and  it  shall  be  shown. 

[Sits,  and  writes  in  his  tablets. 

Nor  is  the  thought  new  horn.  Thro’  days  of  surfeit, 

And  nights  of  haggard  slumber,  it  hath  risen — 

The  only  promise  of  the  only  conquest, 

Change,  vengeance,  yet  to  grasp  : o’er  hate,  o’er  treason 
A quashing,  hushing  vengeance — and  enjoyment, 

Because  a change.  A safety  too — if,  that, 

I did  not  utterly  scorn.  [He  rises . 

Gods  ! ye  do  know  the  very  wrestling  with  it, 

Were  a young  life  to  me ! The  thought  mounts  up, 

And  Sylla  feels  he  is  their  master  still ! 

And  thou,  young  Marius  ! revenge  on  thee, 

Thou  didst  not  meditate  ! Phryne  ? she  is  his  wife.  [Sits  again 
I am  very  desolate.  I knew,  before, 

The  common  mass  of  being  cursed  or  hated, 


APPENDIX  III. 


345 


Yet  hoped  there  was  one  creature  of  my  blood 
Who  trusted — loved.  She  said  it  was  in  ignorance. 

Perhaps.  I’ll  try  her  awfully.  Catiline  ! 

Re-enter  Catiline. 

Hearken.  At  the  first  hour  of  morning,  summon 
Unto  the  Forum,  in  my  sovereign  name, 

The  people  and  the  senators.  While  all  rest  there, 

Metellus  shall  surround  them  with  a force 
Of  soldiers.  Lepidus  and  Julius  Marius, 

Guarded,  lead  thither  too.  And  let  all  wait 
My  presence  and  my  will.  Leave  me.  It  shall  he ! 

[Exit  Catiline. 

For  every  cause  it  shall.  A new,  last  glory  ! 

My  last  audacious  triumph  ! certainty ! 

Vengeance ! a mystery  still ! a blazing  wonder 
And  echo  to  all  nations  and  all  time  ! 


ACT  V. 

Scene  I. — In  Sylla’s  Palace.  Enter  hastily  Phryne,  followed  by  a female 
attendant . 

Phry.  After  my  watchings  all  the  live-long  night, 

A hateful,  leaden  sleep,  uncalled,  unwilled, 

Unfelt,  came  o’er  me — and  how  long  I slept 
I know  not — and  I fear  to  ask  or  know — 

Till,  in  the  fierce  ray  of  the  summer  sun, 

Which,  brightly  angry,  flashed,  methought,  to  rouse  me— 

I woke  and  screamed.  No  voice  replied  to  mine. 

No  creature  came  to  me.  I started  up. 

I have  traversed  all  the  chambers,  one  by  one — 

They  are  all  empty,  and  upon  the  walls 

And  marble  floors,  I have  looked  for  gouts  of  blood. 

Speak,  thou  ! who  here  at  last  dost  wait  on  me— 

My  father  and  his  prisoner — speak  ! 

Att.  At  dawn, 

A prisoner,  with  Catiline,  left  the  palace. 

Your  father,  lady — 


346 


APPENDIX  III. 


Thry.  At  the  dawn ! How  old 
Is  the  day  now  ? 

Att.  Yet  morning  tide. 

Thry.  Yet  morning ! 

Time  lapsed  to  win,  or  lose,  or  wreck  a world. 

Oh,  I have  been  accursed  in  my  sleep. 

Oh,  morbid,  traitor  sleep  ! from  your  death-thrall 

And  heavy  blandishment  I do  divorce 

Mine  eyes  for  ever  ! Or  the  hideous  things 

Which  may  have  happened — may  ? — which  must ! which  have  ! 

Can  well  effect  it ! Spake  you  of  my  father  ? 

Att.  ’Tis  but  some  minutes  since  he  parted,  too. 

Thry.  Whither  ? You  know  not  ? 

AU.  Lady,  no. 

Thry.  Said  he 

No  parting  word  for  Phryne  ? for  his  daughter  ? 

Att.  No  word. 

Thry.  How  looked  he  ? sternly  ? and 
The  prisoner  ? seemed  he  sad  ? — Hush ! — Thro’  the  streets, 
Deserted  by  the  people,  bands  of  soldiers  [At  a urindoio, 

Troop  onward,  heavily — returning  now 
Perhaps  ! — What  is  to  happen,  or  has  happened  ? 

Heard  you  ? — or  any  of  my  women  ? Speak 
The  very  truth ! 

Att.  Nor  they,  nor  I,  can  answer. 

Thry.  I will  go  forth  ! whither  I know  not — but 
O’er  all  the  spreading  city — and  fall  down 
Before  whatever  living  things  I meet, 

Praying  a guidance  to  the  mystery 
Or  explanation  of  it.  Household  gods  ! 

House  of  my  sires  ! farewell.  I go — oh  ! when— 

And  how,  if  ever — to  return  ? Fate  knoweth.  [ Exeun 4 


Scene  II. — The  Forum.  L^enas,  Aufidius,  Senators,  Crassus, 
Cethegus,  People. 

Auf.  Know  ye  the  cause  or  motive  of  this  summons  ? 
Oras.  Unless  as  an  example  to  the  people, 


APPENDIX  III. 


347 


To  punish,  in  their  presence,  the  last  son 
Of  their  old  butcher,  Marius,  we  know  not. 

Auf.  Such  circumstantial  show  is  not  his  fashion. 

Lam.  It  never  was. 

Auf.  The  people  quake  in  terror, 

And  boding  ignorance,  as  hither  led 
By  their  weak  Tribunes.  See  how  silently 
They  follow  hither  the  accused. 

Enter  Catiline,  Julius,  and  Lepidus  guarded , First  Tribune  and  People. 
Cat.  His  air, 

His  brow  defeat  me.  Could  I see  him  wince 
In  look  or  limb,  it  were  my  dearest  triumph, 

And  for  my  purpose,  opportunity.  [Aside. 

Young  Julius  Marius.  [To  him. 

Jul.  Lucius  Catiline  ? 

Cat.  I grieve  to  see  you  thus. 

Jul.  False  as  thou  ’rt  foul. 

Cat.  No,  Julius  Marius,  no.  On  public  grounds 
Your  enemy,  my  heart  can  pity  still 
The  doomed  sufferings  of  all  your  race, 

Now  in  your  own  to  be  so  sadly  ended. 

Jul.  Leave  me. 

Cat.  And  if  by  my  poor  agency 
It  might  be  otherwise — if  your  young  life 
Might  from  this  too  untimely  stroke  be  snatched, 

Here  do  I plainly  stand,  your  friend,  to  try  it. 

[Julius  does  not  notice  him . 
1$£  Trih.  The  noble  senators  may  answer  us. 

Auf.  We,  and  those  good  knights  with  us,  uninformed 
As  Tribunes  or  as  people,  hither  come 
For  Sylla’s  pleasure. 

Cat.  Julius,  hearken  to  me. 

You  are  a man — a young  one — from  whose  eyes 
The  world  is  fading  fast,  with  all  its  changes 
Of  wondrous,  promising,  and  beautiful. 

’Tis  hard  to  look  upon  a man  so  young, 

Standing  so  near  the  verge — encompassed, 

Already,  with  the  shadow  and  the  silence 


348 


APPENDIX  III. 


Of  death — ’tis  hard  to  see  yon,  Julius,  thus, 

And  feel  no  wish  to  succor. — I cannot 
Regard  it  passively  ; and  altho’  fate 
Frown  on  the  very  dawning  of  the  thought, 

I may  he  bribed  to  zeal.  [Julius  is  still  contemptuous . 

lsZ  Trib.  Friends ! Citizens  ! 

Behold ! 

Is2  Citz.  Metellus  leading  on  his  soldiers. 

1st  Trib.  They  crowd  upon  us  ! 

Is*  Citz.  Yes,  and  hem  us  in  ! 

[Enter  Metellus,  with  Soldiers,  who  surround  the  Forum . 
Lcen.  Aufidius,  note  you  that  ? 

Auf.  I do,  and  tremble. 

ls<  Trib.  ’Tis  the  last  day  of  Sylla’s  tyranny. 

ls£  Citz.  Rome’s  lost.  We  are  to  perish  ! 

1st  Trib.  Comes  he  yet  ? [Looking  off . 

Cat.  Julius,  look  round  you.  Of  the  shades  of  doom 
It  is  the  denser  gathering — the  deepest — 

For  next  comes  doom  itself.  Rethink  you,  and 
Now  answer  me.  There  is  a lady — 

Jut.  Ha! 

Cat.  Start  not — but  hear — * 

Jul.  Villain  ! excelling  villain  ! 

Why  is  that — here,  prisoner  as  I stand, 

I do  not,  from  the  bosom  which  could  plot 
That  insult  for  me,  tear  the  fetid  heart  out, 

And — 

Cat.  Traitor ! unhand  me  ! 

Jul.  But — live.  You  are  the  fitter  for  this  world, 

Which  now — the  gods  do  see  it — is  no  world 
For  any  honest  man.  Go— thrive  together. 

In  its  decrepitude  and  worthlessness 
I need  bequeath  to  it  no  better  curse. 

Live  and  revenge  me ! 

Romans  ! you  look  pale 
And  stare  upon  each  other,  asking,  in  whispers, 

Why  this  and  this  ? or,  what  will  happen  now  ? 

Or  what  shall  save  us  ? Romans  ! — no,  not  Romans  ! — 

That  name  no  more — slaves  then,  and  slaves  of  slaves  ! 

But  I’ll  speak  calmer.  On  the  day  he  robbed  you 


APPENDIX  III. 


349 


Of  your  last  liberties,  I met  you  here — 

Here,  in  this  very  Forum,  and— 

lst  Tnh-  {■  Hush. ! Back  ! [Looking  off. 

Citzs.  ) 

Jul.  Pshaw ! They’re  not  worth  the  breath  it  costs — a flock 
Of  sheep  do  not  cringe  closer  from  the  growl 
Of  the  shepherd’s  dog.  Down  with  your  necks,  brave  Romans ! 
That  he  may  step  on  them  ! 

Enter  Second  Tribune,  with  People. 

2 d Trib.  Sylla  ! back,  back  ! 

Enter  slowly , Sylla,  with  Lictors. 

Syl.  Senators,  citizens,  all  men  of  Rome  ! 

A day  hath  risen  whose  progress  shall  proclaim 
Unto  the  breathing  and  the  unborn  world, 

How  worthy  or  unworthy  of  his  place 
Has  Sylla  proved,  and  in  your  turn,  of  him, 

Yourselves,  how  worthy.  A peculiar  question, 

Which  to  this  great  one  tends,  we  first  examine. 

In  me,  the  awful  dignity  of  Rome 
Has  by  assassin  league  been  violated. 

There  stand  the  plotters.  Julius  Marius,  and 
His  colleague,  Lepidus.  More  from  the  Rostrum. 

Jul.  [As  Sylla  walks  towards  the  Rostrum.  ] 

Now,  Lepidus,  your  secret  dagger. 

Enter  Phryne,  behind  Julius. 

Lep.  Take  it. 

Phry.  [Having  observed  Julius.]  Turn,  Sylla  ! turn  ! 

Jul.  [Breaking  through  the  Guards.]  Villains  ! make  way. 

Die ! monster. 

Phry.  [Intercepting  and  catching  his  arm.] 

Hold,  parricide ! — infanticide  ! 

Cat.  Guards  ! — Lictors ! 

Down  with  him — slay  ! 

Syl.  Lictors  ! disarm  that  boy. 

If  I had  wanted  proof  for  your  assurance, 

Himself,  the  head  and  spirit  of  this  treason, 

Doth  here  supply  it.  Ye  have  seen  his  hand 


350 


APPENDIX  III. 


Raised  against  tlie  life  of  the  republic — and, 

P>y  every  law,  civil  and  natural, 

The  days  of  the  last  Marius  are  now  numbered. 

Phry.  Against  all  nature — against  all  the  laws 
Of  natural  hearts.  Romans  ! he  is  my  husband.  [. Embracing  him. 

Jul.  0 Phryne  ! I was  nerved  for  fate  ; but  this — 

Phry.  And,  Romans,  plead  for  him,  with  me.  Ye  know, 
Great  as  his  crime  hath  been  unto  your  eyes 
And  mine,  this  day,  the  youngest  and  the  last 
Of  all  the  Marians  must,  if  he  be  a man, 

Hoard  in  his  heart,  even  against  his  will, 

Griefs,  recollections,  bitterness,  and  anger, 

Which  madden  him,  at  times,  to  say  and  do 
He  knows  not  what ! Oh  think  ye,  Roman  husbands  ! 

Were  he  not  made,  by  suffering,  moment-mad, 

He  who  doth  love  his  wife  as  never  wife 
Was  loved,  would  raise  his  boyish  arm  upon 
The  sacred  person  of  that  wife's  dear  parent — 

A parent  by  that  wife  beloved  as  well — 

And  she  will  say  no  more — as  she  by  him, 

Her  chosen  husband  ? Romans  ! plead  for  me. 

Your  hands  and  voices  here  with  mine.  My  father  ! 

[. Kneels  to  Sylla. 

Syl.  I am  Dictator.  Senators  ! no  word. 

Tribunes  ! beware.  Lictors  ! control  the  people. 

Phryne ! retire. 

Phry.  No  ! bid  them  strike  me  here  ! 

It  is  the  fitter  place  for  me  to  fall, 

Even  at  the  feet  of  the  unnatural  father 
Who  spurns  me  here  ! Perish  I must — I will — 

If— 

Syl.  Lead  the  wife  of  Marius  from  the  Forum. 

[ Ascends  the  Rostrum. 

Phry.  Off,  abject  slaves ! I stand  by  him  again  ! 

[Rushes  to  Julius,  who  is  again  guarded. 
My  arm  around  him  ! to  be  silent  now, 

Since,  if  I am  so,  I have  equal  right, 

With  any  citizen,  to  tarry  here — 

Silent  until  I catch  a word  to  harm  him— 

My  Julius,  fear  not ! 


APPENDIX  III. 


351 


Jul.  I but  fear  for  you. 

Syl.  Young  Julius  Marius  may  tell  you,  Romans, 

He  strikes  but  at  an  absolute  Dictator.  [From  the  Rostrum . 

Wherefore,  in  justice  ? Let  the  people  answer. 

Freely  they  chose  me — nor  unworthily, 

For,  ere  I was  Dictator,  I was  a hero. 

Deep,  distant  waters  ye  shall  never  see 
I bade  flow  round  your  empire,  and  they  flowed 
Rejoicingly.  Kings  I uncrowned  and  crowned  ; 

Avenged  your  wrongs  ; enforced  your  rights  ; unfurled 
Your  glory  to  earth’s  limits.  This,  abroad. 

At  home,  I brought  you  peace — by  any  means, 

Peace,  still.  Proscriptions,  confiscations,  blood — 

These  were  the  means.  On  whom  ? and  blood  of  whom  ? 

On  those  who  plundered  ye,  and  first  shed  yours. 

Who  perished  ? Romans — but  the  foes  of  Rome. — 

What  was  her  loss  ? Citizens  ? Rebels. — Sons  ? 

Parricides. 

Jul.  Friends  ! oh,  friends  ! 

Phry.  Julius,  for  my  sake, 

Patience — forbearance ! 

Jul.  Childless  fathers  ! answer. 

Fatherless  sons  ! lorn  brothers  ! answer  him. 

Rome’s  loss  ? Oh,  let  her  women  raise  their  voices. 

And,  Romans,  tell  him,  too,  Rome’s  loss  is  freedom — • 

The  freedom  a perpetual  Dictator 

Hath  in  his  life  shut  up,  and  which  his  life 

Alone  may  render. 

[At  the  commencement  of  Julius’  speech , Sylla  had  beckoned 
Cethegus  to  his  side;  during  it  he  has  conferred  with  him; 
now  he  resumes , without  having  seemed  to  notice  it. 

Syl.  Thus,  the  means  were  desperate. 

Who  used  them?  Sylla?  No.  Your  sovereign. — 

In  person?  No.  In  Rome’s  great  majesty. — 

In  personal  anger  ? No.  In  her  assertion. — 

For  his  revenge  ? No.  For  her  great  salvation. 

What  father  whose  child’s  treason  leaves  him  childless — 

What  sireless  son  whose  father’s  treason  shamed  him — 

What  brother  whose  bad  brother  shamed  their  sire — 

Will  now  stand  up  for  such  against  his  country  ? 


352 


APPENDIX  III. 


If  I do  speak  unto  a Roman  patriot 
So  circumstantial  and  conditional, 

Let  him  stand  forth  and  front — not  punishment, 

But  the  deep,  broad,  indelible  disgrace 
Of  that  avowal  in  this  public  forum. 

Let  him  stand  forth,  I say  ! 

1^  Trib.  How  should  we  answer  ? 

la  Citz.  Out  of  our  own  admissions  he  would  judge  us. 

1st  Trib.  Let  no  man  speak  ! 

Syl.  Your  silence  I do  thus  interpret,  friends. 

’Twere  just  to  punish  any  who,  with  cause 
Of  private  suffering  the  most  peculiar, 

Dares,  in  my  sovereign  person,  touch  the  state — 

Behold  young  Marius,  who  hath  so  dared. 

Jul.  Tyrant ! [Addressing  Syiia. 

Pliry.  My  Julius ! 

Syl.  Yet— 

Phry.  Hush  ! Hear  him  on  ! 

Syl.  Yet,  as  the  offence  to  Sylla  is,  at  once, 

Public  and  personal,  I do  waive  the  right 
Of  judging  him,  referring  it  unto 
The  Senate  and  the  people. 

Phry.  Hear  you  that  ? 

Jul.  I do — in  deepest  wonder.  If  he  mean  it, 

I am  no  longer  Sylla’ s enemy. 

Syl.  But  more  than  my  permission  here  is  urgent. 

Jul.  Hark  ! — some  deep  subtlety  which  cheats  us  all. 

Syl.  For  this  you  must  be,  once  again,  a people, 

United  to  your  Senate,  sovereign — • 

Without  an  absolute  dictatorship, 

Or  any  intervention  from  the  presence 
Of  civil  or  of  military  force. 

Wherefore,  observe  me.  Lictors  ! yield  your  fasces  ; 

Soldiers  ! lay  down  your  arms  ; and  all  draw  off, 

Or,  here,  as  citizens,  with  your  fellows  mingle. 

[Lictors  and  Soldiers  obey  him. 

Phry.  Oh,  joy  ! my  Julius,  joy  ! 

Jul.  Let  me  observe  him — 

Syl.  This,  the  first  step  to  leave  your  councils  free, 

Is  the  last  act  of  my  authority. 


APPENDIX  III, 


353 


My  servants  powerless,  myself  I now 
Command  from  power — Sylla,  o’er  Sylla  still. 

The  only  master.  Yon  have  heard  it  said 
That,  in  dictatorship  perpetual, 

I had  shut  up  your  freedom.  Well ! Attend. 

My  place  I now  do  abdicate  for  ever  ; 

My  palm  and  purple  I renounce  for  ever  ; 

And,  once  again  a simple  citizen, 

Unarmed,  unsymbolled,  thus  advance  to  greet  you. 

[Takes  off  the  golden  palm  and  the  purple  cloak , and 
descends  from  the  Rostrum. 

Phry.  Well,  Julius  ? well ! 

Jul.  I am  astounded — thrilled ! 
ls£  Trib.  Now,  countrymen  ! 

2 d Trib.  Hush  ! hush  ! he  would  speak  still. 

Syl.  More.  As  Rome’s  magistrate,  I have  freely  dealt 
Upon  the  people,  and  the  Senate  too. 

For  that , yourselves  have  righteously  admitted 
I am  not  privately  responsible. 

Yet,  lest  my  single  judgment  may  have  pushed 
Authority  beyond  its  sovereign  limit, 

Hear  me.  What  I have  done  in  Rome’s  great  name 
I will  account  for  in  mine  own.  I ask 
A trial  from  the  people.  I invite  it. 

Silent  ? I dare  it ! 

Jul.  Oh,  amazing  courage  ! 

Majestic  boldness ! 

Phry.  Terrible! 

Jul.  But  how  grand  ! 

God-despot ! His  sublimity  hath  conquered ! 

Syl.  I am  not  answered,  friends.  Would  the  coward  dagger 
A course  of  virtuous  justice  intercept  ? 

I have  heard,  I know  not  well  how  many  thousands, 

Of  those  whose  kindred,  but  contaminate,  blood 
Flowed  at  their  country’s  doom,  pronounced  by  me, 

Waited  but  time  and  opportunity. 

The  time  is  come,  if  ever  to  come  ; I yield 
The  opportunity.  That,  too,  I dare. 

My  countrymen,  about  the  forum,  here, 

I now  shall  walk.  You  see  I am  unarmed. 


354 


APPENDIX  III. 


My  life  upon  a blow.  To  plot  and  poignard 
I oppose  my  genius  only ! Chaeronea, 

Orchomenus,  and  the  terror  of  my  name  ! 

Behold,  I walk  among  ye. 

Let  that  man 

Who  deems  he  has  a private  vengeance,  take  it ! 

Again,  young  Marius,  strike ! [Walks  to  Julius. 

Jul.  Her  breast,  as  soon  ! 

Phry.  My  father ! 

Syl.  Well?  I cannot  punish  now. 

Phry.  My  father ! take  this  hand. 

[Falls  on  Sylla’s  neck , holding  try  one  of  Julius’  hands. 
Syl.  Tush — tush — 

Freely  I may  depart  then  ? all  unquestioned  ? 

[Re-addressing  the  people  while  Piiryne  still  clings  to  him. 
Phry.  Father  ! [Endeavoring  to  join  his  hand  with  that  of  Julius. 
Syl.  [Grasping  Julius’  hand  almost  mthout  regarding  him. 

Well,  well  ? He  is  pardoned,  is  he  not  ? 

Or  must  I plead  for  him  unto  the  people 

And  the  grave  Senate  ? And — tush,  Sir  ; support  her — 

She  is  now  more  yours  than  mine — tho’  I say  not 
More  in  the  heart.  There — free  me  of  your  wife,  Sir — 

My  child — that  was — 

Phry.  [Embracing  him.']  And  is — is — Glorious  father ! 

Say — is — 

Syl.  Is,  then,  is — is — Will  that  content  you  ? 

Go  to  your  husband. 

Phry.  Yes—  when  you  call  him  so.  [Embracing  Julius. 

Syl.  Freely  I may  depart  ? and  all  unquestioned  ? 

Take  my  last  word,  though.  Over  all  my  battles, 
Proscriptions,  decimations,  hear  ye,  Homans, 

How  I’ve  served  Home.  I found  the  old  republic 
A shadow — scorned,  insulted,  braved  ; I leave  it 
A substance — feared,  respected,  trembled  at — • 

A threat  to  foes — to  rebels,  terrible  ! 

I found  ye  slaves  ! I leave  ye  free  ! By  what 
Inducement,  ye  do  know,  and  will  remember. 

For  myself,  Homans,  I give  thanks  for  nought. 

My  own  hand  won  me  power.  A sovereign  crown 
In  the  street-mire  I found — thence  caught  it  up, 


APPENDIX  III. 


355 


Cleansed,  placed  it  on  my  brow — and  was  your  master ! 

Home,  Phryne — he — does  he  walk  homeward  with  you  ? 

Fhry.  He  does ! 

Jul.  I do. 

Syl.  For  a great  ambition  it  was  little,  then — 

Now,  to  be  less  or  greater,  I renounce  it. 

Whether  in  public  or  private  feeling — 

In  patriotism,  humility,  or  scorn — 

Yourselves,  your  generations,  ages,  times 

May  leisurely  resolve.  Farewell.  Come,  daughter — 

Julius,  attend  her  at  the  other  side.  [ Takes  her  hand. 

Farewell ! The  reign  of  Sylla  hath  not  passed. 

[Exeunt  Sylla,  Julius,  and  Phryne  : Sylla’ s arm  round 
Phryne.  Curtain  falls  while  all  the  rest  gaze  after  him. 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


* 


THE 


CELT’S  PARADISE, 

IN  FOUR  DUANS. 


BY 

JOHN  BANXM, 

AUTHOR  OF  “DAMON  AND  PYTHIAS,”  ETC. 


“What  dreams  may  cornel  ” 

Shakespeare. 


NEW  YORK, 

D.  & J.  SADLIER  & CO.,  31  BARCLAY  STREET, 

MONTREAL  l 

COR  NOTRE  DAME  AND  ST.  FRANCIS  XAVIER  STS. 


1 8 6 9. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


Metrical  Dialogues,  purporting  to  have  occurred 
between  Ossian  (or  Ossin)  and  St.  Patrick,  are,  to  this 
day,  recited  by  the  old  peasantry  of  the  North  and 
South  of  Ireland ; and  specimens  of  them  have  been 
for  some  time  before  the  public,  in  Miss  Brooks’  trans- 
lation of  “Reliques  of  Irish  Poetry.”  A recollection 
of  one  or  other,  or  both  of  these  circumstances, 
unconsciously  suggested  the  opening  situation  of  the 
following  poem. 

An  illustrious  Scots  poet,  who  condescended  to 
bestow  some  flattering  and  advantageous  criticism  on 
the  first  manuscript  of  the  “ Celt’s  Paradise,”  thought 
the  tale  like  “a  tradition  of  the  amour  between  the 
prophetic  poet,  Thomas  the  Rhymer,  and  the  Queen 
of  the  Fairies.”  Such  similarity  will,  of  course,  be 
apparent  to  the  general  reader ; and  the  Author  takes 
leave  to  mention  it  only  for  the  purpose  of  saying, 
that  the  “ Celt’s  Paradise”  was  written  before  he  had 


IV 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


ever  heard  of  the  story  to  which  that  illustrious  poet 
has  done  him  the  honor  of  alluding.  He  begs  to 
add  that,  though  in  the  following  pages  Ossian  ap- 
pears surrounded  with  Irish  connections  exclusively, 
and  though  the  “ hall  of  Allen  ” is  substituted  for  that 
of  “ woody  Morven,”  these  and  other  accompaniments 
were  adopted,  rather  for  the  sake  of  poetical  consist- 
ency, than  with  any  reference  to  the  justice  of  their 
appropriation  in  a local  or  national  point  of  view. 


THE  RIGHT  HON.  LORD  CLONCURRY, 


AS  A SMALL  TRIBUTE  OP 

THE  AUTHOR’S  ADMIRATION 

OF 

HIS  LORDSHIP’S 


PUBLIC  SPIRIT  AND  LOVE  OE  COUNTRY, 

P 

THE  FOLLOWING  POEM 


IS  MOST  RESPECTFULLY 


INSCRIBED. 


THE 


CELT’S  PARADISE 


FIKST  DU  AN. 


OSSIAN. 

Man  of  prayers,  lead  me  forth 
From  our  silent  cell  of  care, 

The  morning-breeze  to  me  is  worth 
All  thy  hymns  and  all  thy  prayer — 

For  dark  and  lonely  have  we  prayed — 

Our  psalms  are  sung,  our  penance  said — 
Thou  hast  told  me,  I am  forgiven, 

And  I long  to  live  in  the  smile  of  heaven. 

I cannot  see  the  holy  light, 

But  I feel  it  on  my  brow  of  white — 

I cannot  see  the  young  bird  soaring, 

But  I hear  the  song  his  pride  is  pouring — - 
I cannot  see  the  laughing  water, 

Nor  the  fresh  beauty  the  sun  has  brought  her 
I only  hear  the  moan  she  is  making, 

Over  her  bed  of  pebbles  breaking. 


8 


THE  CELT  S PARADISE. 


Man  of  prayers,  lead  me  on — 

Lead  the  son  of  Comhal’s  son, 

To  the  hill  where  his  early  deeds  were  done — 
Lead  me  to  Slieve  Gullian’s  breast, 

And  give  me  there  my  mournful  rest. 

Ossian  longs  to  he  alone 

And  think  of  days  and  dangers  gone — 

The  darkened  soul  of  Ossian  longs 
To  float  on  the  stream  of  other  songs 
Than  those  thy  altar  bells  are  ringing, 

And  thy  white-robed  Culdees  singing. 

This  is  the  place — I know  it  now, 

I feel  its  freshness  on  my  brow ! 

Lead  me  where  the  sun  is  brightest, 

Where  the  storm-w^ashed  stone  is  whitest, 

And  there  in  solitude  let  me  sit 
As  silent  and  as  lorn  as  it ! 

Yield  me  now  my  sad  request, 

Leave  me — leave  me  to  my  rest. 


Dark  and  dread  King ! Euler  alone ! 

Deep  stream  that  we  think  not  is  passing  on, 

And  yet  it  goes  forward  and  is  gone, 

Where,  O Time  ! is  thy  hidden  source, 

When  wilt  thou  rest  thee  from  thy  course  ? 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


9 


A pilgrim  art  thou  on  thy  path. 

And  thou  hast  the  solitude  he  hath  ; 

Thy  step  is  alone  by  the  dark  deep  river. 

And  forward  thou  walkest  ever  and  ever  ! 

But  art  thou  of  thyself — Alone 
From  thine  own  power  ? — Or  has  one 
More  awful  still  the  staff  supplied, 

That  props  thee  in  thy  walk  of  pride, 

And  bade  thy  stream  for  ever  flow, 

And  pointed  thee  the  way  to  go  ? — 

Stern  and  relentless  is  thy  sway  !— 

And  withering  as  the  worms  of  the  clay 
Thy  kisses  are ! — At  thy  dark  coming 
The  waters  of  the  heart  grow  chill — 

Thy  breath  her  wildest  wish  benumbing, 

And  bidding  her  proudest  throb  be  still  !— 

Thou  walkest  forth  into  the  wild 
And  at  thy  touch  the  forest-king 
Bows  his  wreathed  head ! — She  who  hath  smiled 
In  beauty’s  blush,  the  loveliest  thing 
Of  all — thy  finger  passeth  over 

Her  cheek,  and  what  remains  behind ! 

Thou  shroudest  in  thy  mantle’s  cover 
The  highest  hero  of  his  kind — 

In  his  last  house  thou  hid’st  him  then, 

And  why  should  we  say  he  lived  ? Thou  changest 
To  wilds  the  fair  abodes  of  men, 

And  in  the  wilderness  once  again 
A pile  of  palaces  thou  rangest 


10 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


Where  chiefs  among  their  thousands  trod, 

And  thousands  worshipped  at  their  nod, 

There  hast  thou  spread  the  stagnant  waters — 
There  hast  thou  sent  the  creeping  thing 

To  hiss,  and  the  heron  to  flap  his  wing 

And  once  where  Beauty’s  laughing  daughters 
Had  their  bright  bower,  there  hast  thou  made 
For  the  lone  fox  a hiding-shade — 

A solitude  no  prayer  may  bless — 

A place  of  fear  and  loneliness ! 


The  solid  earth  and  roaring  ocean 
Obey  the  biddings  of  thy  voice ! — 

Where  valleys  smiled  the  river  is  in  motion, 
And  his  dimpling  waters  all  rejoice ! 

And  where  the  proud  sea  often  broke 
His  swelling  waves  in  ceaseless  shock, 

There  hast  thou  bade  the  green  grass  shoot, 
And  the  tall  tree  settle  and  get  root ! 

And  more  than  this  thou  hast  to  do ! — 
The  rugged  rocks  and  the  mountains  blue 
Must  crumble  and  fall ! — 

The  stars  must  fade  as  words  from  a page, 
And  the  light  of  the  world  wander  in  age  ! — - 
He  must  end  his  proud  career  on  high, 

And  fail — and,  gathered  in  thy  pall, 

He  must  shut  for  ever  his  radiant  eye  ! 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


11 


Link  after  link  thy  chain  creeps  fast 
Around  the  world  ; it  will  close  at  last  : 

And  all  things  then  will  be  fettered  by  tliee, 
And  lonely  and  stern  will  thy  triumph  be ! 

THE  SAINT. 

Ossian,  then  too  our  triumphs  come 
Over  death,  and  time,  and  the  tomb — 

Then  shall  we  win  with  effort  free, 

Over  the  victors,  victory. 

OSSIAN. 

Man  of  prayers,  why  return 
To  quench  the  thought  that  fain  would  burn  ? 
I am  old  and  most  forlorn, 

And  my  only  rapture  is  to  mourn. 

I know  the  grave  is  dark  and  deep, 

Yet  I wish  I had  its  pleasant  sleep. 

THE  SAINT. 

Ossian,  the  grave  is  only  dark 
For  him  whose  spirit  feels  no  spark 
Of  Christian  sorrow  for  the  sin 
He  long  has  lived  and  wantoned  in  : 

But  he  who  prays,  and  hopes,  and  fears, 

And  for  his  life  sheds  bitter  tears, 

In  other  worlds  shall  win  more  bliss 
Than  he  may  think  or  dream  in  this. 


12 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


OSSIAN. 

I know  as  well  as  thou,  the  brave 
Have  endless  pleasures  past  the  grave. 
Good  chiefs  and  warriors  dwell  for  ever 
On  the  banks  of  a pleasant  river, 

Or  walk  with  ever-blushing  maids 
Thro’  flowery  fields  and  scented  shades, 
Or  hunt  the  hart  o’er  dale  and  hill, 

Or  in  their  bowers  sit  calm  and  still. 

THE  SAINT. 

The  joys  of  heaven  thou  hast  not  told  ; 
Nor  is  it  for  the  brave  and  bold 
Its  golden  gates  of  love  unfold  : 

The  good  alone,  or  weak,  or  strong, 

May  sing  in  heaven  their  holy  song, 

And  good  can  only  come  to  thee 
From  Christian  creed  and  charity. 

OSSIAN. 

And  for  this,  must  prayers  be  read, 
And  beads  be  told,  and  matins  said  ? 

And  he  that  doth  not  this,  and  more, 
Must  he  never  touch  that  shining  shore 
Of  joy  thou  preachest  ? — And  where  then 
Are  all  those  stern  and  mighty  men, 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


IB 


Whose  steps  were  on  their  own  green  hills, 

In  their  own  strength  ? — And  where  are  they, 
The  sources  of  the  blood  that  fills, 

Or  once  has  filled,  in  manhood’s  day, 

My  swelling  veins  ? — Say,  Psalmist,  say, 
Where  are  Finn  and  Comhal  now  ? 

And  thou,  the  darling  of  my  lay — 

The  child  of  all  my  love ! whose  brow 
Was  bright  and  beautiful  as  day, — 

Osgur — my  son ! — where,  where  art  thou  ? 

Man  of  prayers,  would’st  teach  me  this  ? 

And  think’st  thou  I could  share  a bliss 
Unshared  with  them  ? To  be  alone 
In  a strange  heaven,  unloved,  unknown, 

As  I am  now,  and  have  no  breast 
To  slumber  on  and  give  me  rest — 

This  may  be  joy,  old  man,  to  thee — 

But,  oh ! it  were  dreary  and  dark  for  me ! 

THE  SAINT. 

God  hath  his  mercies.  They  who  went 
Down  to  the  grave  before  he  sent 
His  word  to  warn  them  of  the  way, — 

For  them  he  doth  not  bid  me  say 
Exclusion  from  eternal  day. 

OSSIAN. 

Man  of  prayers,  I wish  not 
The  raptures  of  thy  cloudless  lot. 


14 


THE  CELT?S  PARADISE. 


Enjoy  thy  heaven.  I know  where  lies 
Old  Ossian’s  only  paradise ! — 

’Tis  with  the  beautiful  and  brave, 
Beyond  the  wild  and  wailing  wave 
Of  this  cold  world.  The  summer  there 
Is  cloudless,  calm,  and  ever  fair. 

I saw  it  once ! — My  ’wakened  blood 
At  that  one  thought  rolls  back  the  flood 
Of  age  and  sorrow,  and  swells  up 
Like  old  wine  sparkling  o’er  its  cup. 

I’ll  tell  thee  of  the  time  I spent 
Beneath  that  cloudless  firmament, 

And  thou  shalt  judge  if  aught  could  be 
So  pure  a paradise  to  me — 

If  by  my  own  frail  spirit  led 

Its  smile  I had  not  forfeited. 

Give  me  the  old  Clarseech  I hung 
On  my  loved  tree  ; so  long  unstrung, 
Even  to  its  master’s  measure  free 
It  may  refuse  its  minstrelsy  : 

But  give  it — and  the  song,  tho’  cold, 
May  kindle  at  a thought  of  old — - 
Of  younger  days  ; and  now  and  then 
It  may  be  strong  and  bright  again. 

Hear  a song  of  age’s  daring — 

The  sighings  of  the  harp  of  Erin  ! 
Waken,  thou  warbler  of  the  West ! 
Waken  from  thy  long,  long  rest ! 


K 


THE  CELT  S PARADISE. 


15 


All  day  we  chased  the  dark-brown  deer 
Thro’  woods  and  wilds  and  waters  clear: 

We  broke  the  dew  on  Allen’s  breast, 

And  we  met  the  evening  on  his  crest. 

Like  that  weak  beam,  I was  alone 

With  the  whispering  breeze  and  the  whitened  stone  ; 

It  was  an  hour  of  doubtful  light — 

Half  was  sunshine,  half  was  night ; 

And  the  moon,  like  maiden  young  and  coy, 

Half  struggling  with  a bashful  boy, 

Was  flickering  over  the  calm  clear  stream 
That  yet  blushed  red  in  the  evening  beam. 

I heard  upon  the  echoes  borne, 

A faint  and  far-off  hunting-horn. 

At  the  shrill  sound  my  steed,  though  spent, 

Pricked  up  his  ears  and  forward  went, 

Hoping  with  me  once  more  to  gain 
A party  of  our  hunting  train. 

Forward  we  went.  The  horn  grew  shrill 
And  shriller.  See ! — from  yonder  hill 
What  floating  form  of  virgin  fair — 

So  delicate,  it  looks  like  air — 

Comes  sweeping  on  at  utmost  speed, 

Low  bending  to  her  snowy  steed? 

The  dogs  are  straining  on  before  her— 

Her  train  is  descending  the  mountain  o’er  her— 

In  her  wild  flight  no  echo  wakes 
To  tell  the  bound  her  courser  takes — 


16 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


The  winter’s  wind  when  it  is  high, 

The  fire  flash  glancing  thro’  the  sky, 

Or  the  torrent  in  his  rudest  race, 

Are  not  so  rapid  as  that  chase  ! 

' Aghast  I stood ! The  dogs  dashed  by — 
The  lady-huntress  next  swept  nigh — 

A moment  in  her  magic  speed 
She  slightly  curbed  her  milky  steed, 

And  looked  upon  me.  Oh  that  look 
Into  my  heart  of  hearts  I took  ! 

Nay,  scoff  not  Psalmist — for  by  the  light 
That  now  for  Ossian  no  more  is  bright, 

I tell  thee  that  one  look  of  her’s 
Would  make  thy  saints  idolaters ! — 

When  April’s  evening  sky  is  fair, 

If  its  golden  folds  uncurtained  were, 

All  but  a misty  veil  unriven 
Between  thee  and  thy  own  bright  heaven — 
And  if  thro’  it  young  angel  eyes 
Beamed  o’er  thee  in  thy  ecstacies, 

To  tell  of  pardon  for  thy  sin, 

And  give  thee  peace  and  smile  thee  in— 

It  would  be  like  the  glance  she  sent 
On  me  in  my  astonishment ! 

And  ’twas  enough  ! I gave  the  rein — 
My  steed  forgot  his  toil  and  pain, 

And  on  we  swept  o’er  hill  and  plain ! — 


THE  CELT?S  PARADISE. 


17 


On,  on — thro’  heath,  and  stream,  and  wood — 
We  climbed  the  bank — we  broke  the  flood — 
But  all  was  mockery  to  the  flight 
Of  the  lady  on  her  steed  of  white ! 

I see  her  on  the  steep  hill’s  brow — 

I gain  it — she  sweeps  thro’  the  valley  now — 
Over  the  valley’s  breast  I strain, 

But  she  has  ascended  the  hill  again ! 

Like  winding  rivers  quick  and  bright, 

She  glanced  and  faded  on  my  sight : 

At  last  within  a brown  wood’s  shade 
A headlong  plunge  her  courser  made, 

And  I,  far  off,  was  left  to  gaze 
In  mute  distraction  and  amaze. 

• 

Even  then  her  train — a fearful  crowd — 
Came  rushing  on  ; looks  strange  and  proud 
Flashed  for  a moment  on  my  face — 

Then  turned  to  track  that  noiseless  chase — 
For  as  I looked  no  echoing  sound 
Gave  answer  to  their  coursers’  bound, 

And  the  rushing  of  the  winds  alone 
Told  that  a hunter  had  passed  on. 


I feared  them  not,  tho’  well  I knew 
They  were  not  things  of  earth ! I drew 
And  firmly  clutched  my  own  good  blade  ; 
One  last  wild  race  my  courser  made, 


18 


'THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


Tho’  spent  and  reeling.  On,  still  on, 

Thro’  tangled  shades  and  wilds  unknown 
He  bore  me  well — nor  sigh,  nor  groan, 

When  down  he  softly  sunk  at  last, 

From  the  proud  beast  lamenting  past. 

I made  him  a couch  of  the  branches  green, 
And  he  had  for  his  shelter  the  forest  screen — 
I brought  him  fresh  grass  gathered  near, 

And  in  my  helmet  water  clear — 

I smoothed  and  bathed  his  drooping  crest, 
And  left  him  to  his  soothing  rest. 

I sat  in  the  tall  tree’s  trembling  shade, 

And  the  moss  of  its  trunk  my  pillow  made. 
My  eyes  could  not  their  watching  keep, 

My  soul  was  sinking  in  its  sleep, 

And  wild  and  wavering  thoughts  came  on 
Of  deeds  imagined,  actions  done, 

And  vain  hopes  mingling  with  the  true, 

And  real  things  a man  may  do. 

A sigh  came  o’er  me  soft  and  warm ! 

I started ! — but  nor  shade  nor  form 
Appeared  thro’  the  half-seen  gloom  around 
To  utter  such  a silver  sound. 

It  might  be  the  sob  of  the  summer  air 
Which  glowed  so  rich  and  sultry  there. 

Again  I slumbered — again  the  sigh 
Of  woman’s  fondness  fluttered  nigh — 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


19 


And  while  I listened,  gentle  lips 

Gently  met  mine, — and  touched,  and  trembled, — 
As  if  beneath  the  moon’s  eclipse 
Alone,  love’s  feeling  long  dissembled, 

Might  dare  to  own  in  bashful  kisses 
Its  maiden  flame  and  modest  blisses. 

Fondly  I raised  my  arms  and  press’d, — 

They  closed  upon  my  lonely  breast. 

Back  from  their  kiss  the  young  lips  started — 
Sighed  one  rich  sigh — and  touched,  and  parted — 

I thought  of  the  huntress  young  and  fair, 

Whose  gifted  glance  had  led  me  there, 

And  I said  in  the  strength  of  my  young  heart’s  sigh, 
While  the  tear  of  passion  brimmed  mine  eye— 

“ Lady  of  kisses ! Lip  of  love ! 

From  the  air  around,  or  sky  above, 

Come  and  bless  my  desolate  arms 
With  the  richness  of  thy  charms.” 

“ Son  of  Earth !”  a small  voice  said, 

So  soft  it  might  be  the  west  wind 
Murmuring  thro’  a garden  bed, 

And  fraught  with  feeling,  heart  and  mind, 

And  lip,  and  language,  to  declare 
Its  love  for  any  floweret  fair — 

“ Son  of  Earth ! thy  sigh  is  vain, 

’Till  thou  can’st  join  our  hunting  train, 

Free  from  earthly  touch  or  stain. 


20 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


And  if  thou  hast  wish  to  hunt  with  me, 

Three  days  shalt  thou  silent  be — 

Three  days  and  nights  thou  shalt  not  sleep— 
Nor  sigh,  nor  smile — nor  laugh,  nor  weep — 

Nor  warm  thy  wish  with  earthly  food — 

Nor  slake  thy  thirst  with  earthly  flood. 

When  thou  dost  this  for  love  of  me, 

Again  sleep  under  the  wild-wood  tree, 

And  pleasant  shall  thy  waking  be.” 

<c  Child  of  the  breeze ! — where — who  art  thou  ? 
Let  me  see  thy  lovely  brow !” 


“ Viewless  I am,  and  must  be,  till 
Thy  three  days’  task  thou  dost  fulfil. 

I am  of  the  people  of  the  hill — 

A Sidh^  spirit,  pure  and  free 
From  all  the  cares  that  ’cumber  thee. 

I live  in  a land  where  the  blushing  light 
Is  always  constant,  calm,  and  bright ; 
Grief  is  not  there,  nor  age,  nor  death, 

But  evergreen  youth,  and  endless  breath, 
And  life  that  tires  not  with  the  living, 
And  love  that  loathes  not  with  the  giving. 
Stern  sons  of  men  who  struggling  die 
In  Virtue’s  cause,  or  Freedom’s  high, 
Come  there  across  the  waste  of  water, 
Guided  by  a Sidhd^’s  daughter, 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE, 


21 


And  live  at  leisure  calm  and  free, 

To  follow  what  their  wish  may  be. 

Son  of  Finn ! could’st  thou  forsake 
The  hills  that  now  thy  pleasure  make, 
Defying  death,  and  the  care  and  pain 
That  here  for  thy  old  white  hairs  remain, 

And  come  to  live  with  love  and  me, 

In  such  a land  of  liberty  ?” 

“ Voice  of  softness ! Cans’t  thou  love  me  ? 
Thou  art  a beam  too  far  above  me. 

I’d  fly  with  thee  thro’  the  waste  of  water, 

The  raging  flame,  or  the  field  of  slaughter, 
Thro’  deserts  where  man  no  footing  finds — 
Thro’  all  the  waves  and  all  the  winds ! 

Dost  thou  love  me,  child  of  light  ? — 

Is  Ossian  pleasant  in  thy  sight  ?” 

“ The  sigh  that  broke  thy  gentle  sleep 
Might  teach  thy  tongue  its  word  to  keep. 
Return,  fair  Ossian,  to  thy  hill ; 

I will  be  here  to  love  thee  still.” 


SECOND  DUAN. 


I went  and  came.  The  wild- wood  tree 
Again  spread  out  my  canopy. 

I could  not  sleep.  I sat  in  grief 
And  listen’d  to  the  rustling  leaf. 

She  came  not  o’er  me  as  before — 

No  murmuring  breeze  her  whispers  bore— 
No  timid  touch  of  her  soft  lip 
From  mine  its  kisses  now  would  sip. 

A far-off  sigh  alone  I heard, 

Like  the  night-wind  thro’  the  thistle’s  beard, 
“ Why  wilt  thou  shun  me,  child  of  bliss  ? — 

I come  to  claim  thy  promised  kiss.” 

“ Thou  comest  to  claim,  but  hast  not  done 
Thy  promise  like  a faithful  one. 

This  morn  thy  sister,  who  hath  wept 
Because  thy  soft  sleep  was  un slept, 

In  Allen’s  stately  hall  held  up, 

With  sighs  and  smiles,  the  parting-cup, 

And  thou  didst  taste  the  blushing  wine, 

And  therefore  art  no  love  of  mine. 

Come  back  again,  and  with  thee  bring 
A lip  unstain’d  by  earthly  thing.” 


THE  CELTS  PARADISE. 


23 


Sad  I returned.  That  night  I slept. 

And  eat  and  drank,  and  wildly  wept ; 

But  thence  three  days  and  nights  I waked — 
My  feast  untouched,  my  thirst  unslaked — 
And  again  beneath  the  wild  tree’s  shade 
I call’d  in  sighs  my  aerial  maid. 

And  farther  off  her  voice  replied — 

“ Tho’  thou  hast  neither  smiled  nor  sigh’d, 
Nor  furled  in  sleep  thy  sorrow’s  wing, 

Nor  eat  nor  drank  of  earthly  thing, 

Yet,  as  this  morning  at  the  gate 
Thy  sister  stood  all  desolate, 

And  prayed  of  thee  a parting  kiss, 

Thou,  all  unmindful  of  the  bliss 
That  warms  a purer  cheek  and  breast, 

Didst  yield  the  girl  her  fond  request. 

Come  back  again,  and  with  thee  bring 
A lip  unstain’d  by  earthly  thing.” 

I did  return,  and  with  me  brought 
The  unstain’d  lip  the  spirit  sought. 

I sat  in  sleep  beneath  that  tree — 

Sweet  sleep  that  came  on  suddenly — 

Her  warm  wild  sigh  stole  o’er  me  then, 

And  woo’d  me  to  my  thought  again  ; — 

I felt  a cheek  of  tenderest  touch 
Laid  gently  to  the  burning  blush 
That  mantled  mine  ; — I felt  young  arms 
Steal  round  and  round  me,  and  all  the  charms 


< 


24 


THE  CELT  S PARADISE. 


Of  a fond,  flattering,  loving  breast 
To  mine  in  murmuring  raptures  press’d. 

“ From  this  fond  and  free  caress, 

Wake,  Son  of  Earth,  thy  sleep  to  bless,— 
Wake  to  the  joy  of  breathing  free — 

The  breath  of  immortality !” 

It  was  too  much — too  keen  a pleasure 
For  a mere  mortal  heart  to  measure  ! 

My  sinews  thrilled — my  breathing  went — 
My  laboring  pulse  its  throbbings  spent, 
And  my  soul  faded  into  night, 

Darkening  in  its  own  delight. 

I woke  as  men  from  doubtful  dre^  s 
In  the  broad  sun’s  real  beams 
Oft  waken  to  look  back  with  fright 
Upon  their  phantoms  of  the  night. 

The  life  I led,  the  days  gone  by, 

I thought  of,  dark  and  doubtingly. 

It  was  not  an  action  or  a scene 
In  which  I felt  I might  have  been — 
Father  some  unsubstantial  play 
Of  fancy  in  her  holiday. 

A brighter  thought  came  to  my  tongue—® 
A livelier  life  within  me  sprung — 

A fresher  current  of  young  blood 
Sent  to  my  heart  its  thrilling  flood, 


THE  CELT7S  PARADISE. 


25 


And  my  lightened  limbs  disdained  to  rest 
On  the  cold  earth’s  cloddy  breast. 


I woke  upon  a wild  sea-shore — • 

The  waste  was  round  the  sky  was  o’er : 
My  head  was  cradled  on  her  knee. 

And  there  she  watched  me  silently, 
Like  the  sun  shining  on  a flower 
That  all  alone  lives  thro’  its  hour 
In  some  forsaken  wilderness. 

I woke  and  woo’d  her  heart’s  caress. 
And  she  did  give  it  wild  and  free 
As  her  kiss  beneath  the  forest  tree. 

And  I felt  with  her  and  she  with  me — 
My  thoughts  were  hers,  and  mutually 
I had  her  thinkings — heart  in  heart 
And  mind  in  mind  together  blended, 
Like  streams  that  cannot  live  apart, 
But  in  one  glassy  lake  have  ended. 


And  shining  and  soft  was  her  virgin  form, 
In  full-blown  beauty  wild  and  warm. 

I know  not  if  aught  of  earthly  blood 
Mingled  with  the  magic  flood 
That  feeds  her  veins  ; but  you  might  see 
A rich  vein  wandering  sportively 
Beneath  the  bright  transparent  skin, 

That  kept  its  sparkling  essence  in. 


26 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


’Twas  an  eartlily  shape,  but  polish’d  too  high 
For  an  earthly  touch  or  an  earthly  eye. 

;Twas  an  earthly  shape ! What  else  could  be 
Moulded  or  made  to  rapture  me  ? 

What  other  form  could  loveliness  take 
To  bid  my  doating  eye-balls  ache, 

And  boil  my  blood,  and  fire  my  brain 
In  agonies  of  blissful  pain  ? 

Nay,  Saint,  I pass  thy  word  of  scorn — 
Thyself  hath  sung  this  very  morn 
Of  beautiful  and  blushing  things, 

With  golden  hair  and  snowy  wings — 

Fair  beyond  minstrel’s  fancyings — 

Who,  moulded  like  to  forms  of  earth 
Even  in  thy  own  heaven  have  birth, 

Tho’  basking  in  such  holy  light 

Hath  made  them  look  more  soft  and  white. 


I tell  thee,  there  she  sat  with  me, 

Fairer  than  earthly  woman  may  be  ; 

And  she  floated  before  my  fainting  glance, 
Like  the  shapes  of  air  that  softly  dance 
Bound  the  glorious  evening  sun, 

In  joy  that  his  daily  task  is  done. 

Her  eye  was  large,  and  soft,  and  dark, 
Floating  in  fondness  ; often  a spark 
Of  mild  and  chasten’d  light  shone  thro’; 
And  it  was  even  as  a drop  of  dew 


THE  CELT  S PARADISE. 


27 


Half  seen  within  a darken’d  bower, 

In  the  morning  misty  hour ; 

And  yon  might  know  that  underneath 
All  of  her  that  did  look  or  breathe 
There  was  a spirit  pure  and  chaste 
As  ice  upon  the  unsunned  waste, 

Or  silver  waters  underground 

That  the  searching  day  has  never  found. 


And  she  looked  on  me,  and  I on  her — 

Each  glance  the  other’s  worshipper — 

A long,  long  look — an  endless  stream 
Of  ever-gushing  love — a beam 
Unbroken  as  the  lonely  one 
For  ever  flowing  from  the  sun. 

And  I know  not  how — for  years  come  on, 

And  mind  and  memory  half  are  gone, 

And  things  that  in  our  morning  youth 
Seem’d  strong  and  durable  as  truth 
In  age’s  twilight  fade  away 
To  shapeless  shades,  and  will  not  stay. 

I know  not  how — but  we  have  broke 
The  chains  of  that  dear  dream,  and  woke 
And  left  that  solitary  shore 
To  laugh  amid  the  billow’s  roar! 

Yes  ! swift  as  the  wild  wind  that  gives  it  its  motion, 
We  traveled  the  waste  of  the  desolate  ocean — 


28 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


And  liow  proudly  I rode  on  the  back  of  the  billow, 
With  her  lip  for  my  kiss  and  her  breast  for  my  pillow! 

We  came  to  a land  where  the  light  of  the  world 
Hath  brightest  hi^  standard  of  summer  unfurled. 

We  touch  it — we  pass  it — we  traverse  its  scope 
Like  the  glancing  of  thought  or  the  gleamings  of  hope ! 

I have  no  memory  of  the  things 
I saw  or  met  in  that  fearful  flight — 

They  only  make  strange  visitings 
To  my  sleeping  thoughts  in  a dream  of  night. 

Yet  half  I remember,  as  we  pass’d 
A desert  of  sand  outstripping  its  blast, 

Of  savage  shapes  and  forms  of  fear 
That  came  to  look  on  us  too  near  ; 

And  the  hungry  glaring  of  their  eyes 
Half  yielded  to  a stern  surprise 
To  see  such  rapid  travelers  there, 

Or  hear  us  hurrying  thro’  the  air. 

And  on ! The  blue  hills  backward  fly — 

Trees,  rocks,  and  the  world  and  all  glance  by ! 

And  once,  as  I gave  a farewell  look 
To  the  old  sun  I had  forsook, 

He  seem’d  as  if  rushing  down  the  sky 
To  drink  the  depths  of  the  ocean  dry, 

And  finish  his  long  and  lonely  reign, 

And  never  light  up  the  world  again. 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


On,  on  ! And  we  came  to  the  last  cold  shore 
That  aged  snn  is  shining  o’er. 

It  was  a scene  of  feature  wild — 

Its  rocks  in  random  ruin  piled — 

And  towers  of  ice  and  hills  of  snow, 

Mocking  the  wither’d  waste  below. 

Yet  there,  all  beautiful  and  bright, 

The  sun  was  shedding  his  chasten’d  light. 

It  seem’d  as  if  faithless  trees  and  flo'wers, 

That  vary  with  the  varying  hours, 

And  eyes  and  cheeks  that  change  at  will, 

And  worldly  hearts,  more  fickle  still, 

Had  tired  him  with  their  dull  deceit, 

And  he  no  more  would  lend  them  heat, 

Or  light,  or  life — but  thither  came 
To  shine  on  things  that,  cold  and  tame, 

And  shapeless,  and  strange  as  they  might  be, 
Smiled  always  in  white  constancy. 

And  there,  away  from  house  and  tower, 

He  spent  his  silent  noon-tide  hour 
ALL  sportively  : his  soft  beam  fell 
On  many  a glancing  icicle, 

And  kindled  up  each  crystal  height 
With  rainbow  hue  and  chequer’d  light. 

And  I thought  he  wished  no  other  eye 
To  gladden  at  a scene  so  high, 

But  all  in  solitude  smiled  to  see 
The  play  of  his  own  pleasantry. 


30 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


On,  on ! That  spangling  scene  is  pass’d, 
And  we  have  left  the  world  at  last ! 

I cannot  tell  you  if  we  went 
Upward  or  down — thro’  firmament, 

Or  wind  or  water — air  or  light ; 

It  was  even  as  a vision  of  night, 

When  youthful  hearts  that  pant  for  heaven 
Dream  of  some  rich  and  rosy  even. 

Upon  whose  perfumed  breeze  they  rise. 

Like  the  mist  of  the  hill  in  summer  skies. 

I saw  not,  touch’d  not  aught  but  her 
Who  was  my  bosom’s  comforter 
In  that  rash  flight.  Enough  for  me 
To  feel  her  clasp  me  tenderly, 

And  with  her  kisses  call  from  death 
The  flutterings  of  my  failing  breath. 

Oh  then  ! in  what  a keen  delight 
We  shot  upon  our  airy  flight — 

Like  the  lone  comet,  calm  and  fair, 

Cleaving  the  silent  realms  of  the  air  ! 

I said  I knew  not  aught  was  there — 

Nor  saw  a shape,  nor  heard  a sound 
In  all  the  voiceless  space  around — 

Yet  have  I thought — a half-dreamt  thought — 
That  far  and  doubtingly  I caught, 

While  in  our  rush  of  silence  hurled, 

A parting  glance  of  my  native  world. 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


31 


The  stars  were  up,  and,  weak  and  small, 

They  twinkled  round  a darken'd  ball ; 

I strove  to  fix  them  on  my  sight, 

And,  as  I looked,  their  points  of  light 
Lengthen’d  to  lines,  that  quick  and  slight 
Traversed  each  other,  and  entwined 
Like  a maiden’s  tresses  in  the  wind — 

And  still  I look,  and  still  they  glance, 

And  mingle  in  their  misty  dance — 

And  faint  and  fainter,  and  now  they  fly — 

And  now  they  fail,  and  now  they  die — 

And  they  and  the  spot  they  woke  to  light 
Have  melted  from  my  swimming  sight ! 

One  earthly  sigh  I gave  to  part 

From  the  world  that  warmed  my  youthful  heart. 


And  on,  and  on  ! — But  how  or  where  ? 

I felt  no  motion  in  the  air, 

And  I think  no  breeze  was  busy  there- 

But  I was  swathed  as  in  a mist 

That  the  morning  sunbeam  has  not  kiss’d — 

And  I was  hurled  as  in  a wind 

That  all  but  leaves  a thought  behind. 

On,  on  ! And  have  we  not  touch’d  at  last 
Some  gentle  substance  as  we  pass’d? 

I thought  our  flight  less  fearful  now. 

And  I looked  upon  my  Spirit’s  brow 


32 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


To  read  its  smile.  Oh  well  I knew 
My  own  heart’s  thought  reflected  true  ! 
And  smoother  still  we  glide  along — 
Smooth  as  the  gushing  flow  of  song. 
The  velvet  sod  we  press  at  last — 

The  gathered  mist  aside  is  cast — 

And  arm  in  arm,  and  hand  in  hand, 

We  wander  thro’  her  own  bright  land ! 


THIED  D UAN. 


THE  SAINT. 

Ossian,  enough  of  this  dotard  theme, 
Lit  up  at  the  meteor-blaze  of  a dream, 
Wanton  and  vain  as  ever  was  fann’d 
By  the  deadly  zeal  of  the  evil  one’s  hand. 

OSSIAN. 

Man  of  prayers,  and  dost  thou  dare 
To  say  to  Ossian  he  was  not  there  ? 


THE  SAINT. 

I tell  thee,  Ossian,  it  was  a vain 
And  wicked  vision  of  thy  brain, 

Coming  in  sleep  from  thoughts  of  sin, 
That  wantoned  thy  waking  soul  within  ; 
And  dark  and  aged  as  thou  art, 

And  withered  as  is  thy  wayward  heart, 

€ 


34 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


Fitter  were  it,  olcTman,  for  tliee 
To  pray  on  bare  and  bended  knee. 

And  tell  thy  blessdd  rosary, 

Than  here  upon  this  blasted  hill 
To  sing  thy  song  of  weakness  still. 

Arise  and  walk ! The  sloping  sun 
Hath  half  his  daily  business  done, 

And  we  are  warned  of  penance  unsped, 
And  psalms  unsung,  and  prayers  unread. 


OSSIAN. 

Away ! and  leave  me  to  my  wrath  ; 

No  other  vengeance  Ossian  hath 
For  all  the  slanders  of  thy  tongue, 

And  the  tears  of  shame  thy  words  have  rung 
From  his  old  heart.  Away — away ! 

And  were  it  but  an  earlier  day, 

That  word,  false  Saint,  thou  durst  not  say ! 
Oh,  Osgur  ! my  heart’s  darling  son, 

Thy  father’s  deeds  are  all  undone ! 

He  is  in  darkness,  and  must  hear 
The  word  of  shame  come  on  his  ear, 

And  he  may  not  raise  a sword  or  spear ! 

The  last  of  all  the  Fenian  race 
Sits  on  his  own  hill  in  disgrace ! 

But  were  he  here,  or  were  there  one 
Of  all  my  heroes  that  are  gone, 


the  celt?s  paradise. 


35 


Thou  lying  slanderer  of  the  brave, 

The  sod  thou  stand ’st  on  were  thy  grave ! 
And  did’st  thou,  darest  thou  talk  to  me 
Of  speaking — thinking  falsity  ? 

And  speak  I of  Osgur  ? Man  of  prayers, 

I care  not  for  these  old  white  hairs. 

Roll  off  the  cloud  that  closes  o’er  me — 

Let  me  but  see  thee  stand  before  me — 
Break  this  staff,  and  in  my  hand 
Let  me  feel  my  father’s  brand — 

Then  might’st  thou  wish  thy  prayers  read, 
Thy  shriving  o’er,  and  thy  penance  sped  ! 


THE  SAINT. 

A wayward  penitent  to  me, 

I fear  me,  Ossian,  thou  wilt  be. 

I said  not,  I wished  not  to  say 
A word  to  steal  thy  fame  away. 

I must  believe  that  for  thy  race 
There  is  but  one  pure  dwelling-place — 
I must  believe  that  soul  or  spirit 
No  sense  of  mortal  touch  inherit — 
And  this  I must,  if  I have  faith 
In  Him  who  died  to  conquer  death, 
And  hope,  with  Him,  in  light  to  be, 

A measureless  eternity. 

Thou  hast  thy  creed,  and  I have  mine  ; 
And  if  I will  not  bow  to  thine, 


36 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


How  do  I err  to  them  or  tliee 
But  as  thyself  hath  erred  to  me  ? 

Ossian,  the  Fenii’s  fame  is  high, 

Their  deeds  are  sung,  and  can  never  die  ; 
Strong  were  they  on  their  hills  of  power, 

And  happy  was  their  peaceful  hour. 

They  have  failed  on  earth  as  the  sun  goes  down 
Over  Slieve  Gullian’s  craggy  crown, 

When  he  leaves  the  world  he  smiled  upon, 
Warm  with  the  light  of  his  glories  gone. 

OSSIAN. 

Free  be  thy  faith  ; and  I rejoice 
To  hear  in  peace  thy  harmless  voice. 

Well  hast  thou  spoken.  Man  of  age  ! 

Our  whole  race  was  one  spreading  page 
Of  truth  and  whiteness — free  from  stains 
As  the  bounding  blood  within  their  veins. 

Nay,  rest  we  here.  ’Tis  very  long 
Since  Ossian  gave  his  soul  to  song. 

I know  the  sun  hath  soared  his  fling, 

Now  pointing  to  earth  his  golden  wing ; 

Yet,  if  thou  wilt  but  list  my  lay, 

A double  penance  will  I say 
For  this  upon  my  shriving  day. 

A dream  it  was  not.  Well  I know 
How  short  a way  our  visions  go, 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


37 


To  give  us  half  the  living  bliss, 

I quaffed  upon  her  virgin  kiss ! 

And  now  we  are  in  her  land  of  love, 

With  a light  below  and  a sky  above, 

And  such  a breathing  life  around, 

And  such  a mingling  of  soft  sound, 

I have  no  words  to  tell  the  thought 
With  which  my  fainting  soul  is  fraught ! 

And  if  I had,  what  pulse  could  beat — 

What  bright’ning  brow  could  flush  with  heat, 
And  give  the  smile  to  the  bard  so  dear, 

And  only  age  and  coldness  here  ? 

Ask  me  if  the  flowers  were  fair — 

Ask  me  if  the  sighing  air 

Was  soft  and  pleasant — I will  say 

Thou  think’st  but  of  an  earthly  day, 

And  earthly  flowers,  and  air,  and  skies, 

And  makest  with  them  my  Paradise. 


But  seek  not  on  cold  and  earthly  things 
To  fetter  thy  imaginings, 

If  thou  would’st  wish  one  glimpse  to  win 
Of  that  pure  heaven  I have  been  in. 

Lie  on  the  green  hill’s  sunny  side, 

And  listen  to  the  dashing  tide — 

Let  the  flowers  be  blushing  nigh  thee, 
And  lay  thy  harp  in  slumbers  by  thee, 


38 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


Save  that,  now  and  then,  thy  finger 
On  some  small  chord  will  love  to  linger, 

Which,  chance  and  fancy  half  inspiring, 

Thy  softened  sonl  is  gently  firing — 

Then,  while  the  evening-beam  blushes  red, 

And  the  high  grass  is  waving  o’er  thy  head, 
And  thine  eyes  are  half  closed  in  the  rosy  light, 
And  thy  thoughts  within  are  sparkling  bright — 
Then  may’st  thou  image  some  floating  scene 
Like  that  lovely  land  where  I have  been ! 

Yet  it  wanted  not  its  own  wild  hill, 

The  spreading  tree,  and  the  silver  rill — 

The  silent  lake,  the  stretching  shore, 

And  the  hoarseness  of  the  torrent’s  roar — 
Scenes  which  the  true  bard  loves  to  see, 
Whether  on  earth  or  in  heaven  he  be. 

And  ever  its  gentle  rivers  glided 
Thro’  fields  of  flowers,  which  they  divided 
As  the  minstrel-measure  parts  in  song 
The  flowers  his  fancy  strays  among. 

And  its  small  flowers  were  always  fair, 

And  soft  to  the  touch  as  summer  air ; 

Their  only  business  was  to  live, 

And  to  the  breeze  their  perfumes  give, 

And  in  return  the  breezes  crept 
Into  their  bosoms  while  they  slept, 

And  left  them  all  the  sweets  they  found 
In  their  flight  the  world  around. 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


89 


I know  not  whence  the  day-beam  came, 
But  it  was  ever  and  ever  the  same — 

A living  light  that  streamed  for  ever  ^ 
On  hill  and  mountain,  lake  and  river  : 
Without  a burst,  without  a shade, 

One  mild  and  virgin  day  it  made — 

In  which  on  sultry  breeze  could  blast, 

Nor  cloud  nor  tempest  overcast, 

Nor  sullen  mist  its  damp  distill, 

Nor  wild  wind  rave,  nor  winter  chill. 


I say  not  that  the  young  eyes  there 
Made  that  modest  light  less  fair. 

It  might  be  that  one  roving  ray 
First  called  a love-look  into  day, 

And  from  two  starry  eyes  drew  forth 
A freshened  glow  and  added  worth — 

And  these  eyes  looked  on  other  eyes, 

And  kindled  up  new  brilliances — 

And  other  eyes  still  woke  each  other. 

And  every  soft  beam  had  a brother, 

’Till,  mingling  quick  and  flashing  wide, 

The  gathered  radiance  gave  its  tide — 

And  blushing  cheeks,  and  blushing  flowers 
Bichly  mellowed  its  dazzling  powers, 

And  lake  and  river,  air  and  sky, 

For  ever  made  it  multiply. 


40 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


I think  such  might  be  the  mingled  ray 
That  there  gave  out  its  pleasant  day, 

For  it  sqemed  to  glitter  a little  less 
When  my  loved  one  slept  in  gentleness  ; 

And  the  only  faint  fading  of  that  light, 

Which  gave  but  the  calmness  of  earthly  night, 
Was  when  a thousand  eyes  were  sleeping 
Unearthly  sleep,  that  had  been  keeping 
The  day  so  fresh  and  fair  about  them, 

It  could  not  be  day  or  light  without  them. 

There  was  a voice  throughout  the  air 
That  spoke  of  soul  and  spirit  there — 

And  ever  as  you  breathed  its  sigh, 

I may  not  name  the  thinkings  high 
That  o'er  your  mind  in  freshness  stole, 

And  wildly  woke  the  startled  soul. 

And  it  made  minstrelsy,  and  spoke 
Language  that  bards  all  vainly  invoke 
When  they  would  tell  of  words  half  broken, 
With  the  river-spirit  spoken, 

Or  catch  from  the  careering  breeze 
Its  darkly-whispered  mysteries. 

And  all  was  music — air  and  sky 
And  water — and  the  harmony 
Of  what  was  spoken — and  the  song 
Of  shining  birds,  that  in  a throng 
Their  distant  warblings  would  prolong. 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


41 


Then  it  was  most  pleasant  to  see 
The  innocent  creatures  there  that  be, 

Sitting  or  walking  joyously 

In  their  bower  or  thro’  their  shade — 

Bard  and  warrior,  youth  and  maid, 

Each  happy  as  he  wished  to  be 
In  all  the  range  of  liberty. 

Young  eyes  were  ever  glancing  round— 

Eyes  that  never  wept  or  frowned — 

And  the  laugh  of  those  happy  hearts  was  like 
Strains  that  enraptured  minstrels  strike, 

In  one  full  and  bursting  measure, 

When  they  give  their  souls  to  sound  and  pleasure. 


All  were  happy — but  some  felt 
A holier  joy,  and  others  dwelt 
In  higher  glory.  I saw  one 
Who,  for  the  good  deeds  he  had  done 
On  earth,  was  here  a worshipped  king, 
Triumphant  o’er  all  suffering. 

On  the  utmost  edge  of  his  own  shore, 

One  foot  amid  the  breaker’s  roar, 

Another  on  the  rocky  strand, 

He  met  the  invading  foe — his  hand 
Grasp’d  its  good  sword.  He  was  alone, 
And  they  were  thousands  ; and  when  flown 
His  strength  at  last,  he  could  but  throw 
Between  his  country  and  the  foe 


42 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


His  heart,  and  thro’  it  bid  them  smite 
At  her’s. 

He  fell ; but  in  the  light 
Of  Paradise  the  hero’s  deed 
Found  fittest  eulogy  and  meed  ; 

The  gaping  deatli-gash  on  his  side 
Was  turned  to  glory — far  and  wide 
As  a bright  star  it  beamed — and  he 
Walked  on  in  immortality, 

Worshipped  and  wondered  at — the  brave, 

Unenvious  to  his  virtue,  gave 
Honor  and  fame,  and  praise — the  old, 

Blessed  him  as  he  walked  by,  and  told 
His  name  in  reverence — beauty’s  tongue, 

Her  laugh  of  love,  and  her  soft  song 
Ever  at  his  approach  were  hushed 
Unconsciously — and  thousands  rushed, 

Forgetful  of  themselves,  to  gaze 
And  give  in  looking  their  heart’s  praise 
To  him,  of  heroes  the  highest  and  best, 

Whose  death-wound  was  turned  to  a star  on  his  breast 

With  him  walked  one  in  converse  high, 

Of  lesser  shape,  but  whose  quick  eye 
Sent  inspiration  round — the  rush 
Of  bright  thoughts  in  a dazzling  blush 
Spread  o’er  his  face.  Music  and  song 
At  his  birth  informed  his  tongue 


THE  CELTS  PARADISE. 


43 


And  fired  his  soul ; and  with  them  came 
The  throb  for  freedom  ; but  the  name 
Of  his  own  land  had  passed  away, 

And,  fettered,  amid  her  waves  she  lay, 

Like  a strong  man  on  his  hill.  The  bard 
In  all  her  breezes  only  heard 
The  sigh  of  her  past  fame.  No  strain 
Lose  o’er  her  desolated  plain 
To  mourn  her  glories  gone,  or  call 
The  blush  of  shame  for  her  early  fall 
Up  to  her  cold  destroyer’s  cheek, 

Or  on  his  heart  in  thunders  break. 

But  the  bard  caught  up  his  harp,  and  woke 
His  Country’s  Song  ! And  as  it  broke 
Forth  in  its  pride,  unmoved  he  met 
From  despot  tongues  their  chide  or  threat — 
The  lordly  frown  or  luring  smile 
That  strove  to  silence,  or  beguile 
To  silence,  a song  so  high  and  bold, 

So  true  and  fearless — for  it  told 
Her  tale  in  every  strain  ! The  wrong 
And  outrage  she  had  suffered  long 
Went  forth  among  the  nations,  ’till 
The  eyes  of  men  began  to  fill 
With  sorrow  for  her  sorrows ; and 
Even  in  that  cold  and  careless  land 
That  wrought  her  woe,  one  manly  sigh 
Was  heard  at  last  in  sympathy 


41 


THE  CELT?S  PARADISE. 


With  all  her  suffering  ; and  for  this 
Thro’  our  world  of  light  and  bliss 
lie  walked  immortal — side  by  side 
With  him,  the  hero,  who  had  died 
The  highest  death  a hero  can  die — 

For  his  native  land  and  her  liberty ! 

And  equal  reverence  to  the  bard 
All  creatures  gave  ; and  his  reward 
Was  equal  glory  ; a blessed  song 
Went  with  them  as  they  walked  along ; 

It  was  over  and  round  them  on  their  way, 
And  ever  it  said  thro’  the  cloudless  day — 

“ Joy  to  the  hero  who  dared  and  died 
For  his  country’s  honor,  and  fame,  and  pride  ; 
And  joy  to  the  bard  whose  song  brought  fame 
And  pride  to  his  fallen  country’s  name  !” 


And  I saw  such  scenes  of  joy  and  love 
In  Paradise,  that  I could  rove 
Its  holy  bowers  for  ever,  and  be 
For  ever  blessed  such  joy  to  see. 


I saw  an  old  man  sitting  alone  : 

On  earth  he  left  a darling  one, 

And  for  her  coming  waited  here  : 

Without,  her  Paradise  was  not  dear ! 

In  pain  and  sickness,  want  and  woe, 

She  had  soothed  or  shared  his  bosom’s  throe ; 


THE  CELT*S  PARADISE. 


45 


He  had  no  pillow  but  her  breast, 

No  song  but  her’s  to  sing  him  to  rest, 
No  tear  but  her’s  to  meet  his  grief, 

No  smile  but  her’s  to  beam  relief, 

No  hand  but  her’s  to  bring  him  food— 
She  was  his  only  earthly  good ! 


Her  youth  and  loveliness  she  forgot : 

To  shield  his  years,  and  share  his  lot, 

The  red  rose  withered  on  her  cheek 
Uncared  for.  §he  could  only  seek 
Her  father’s  heart  by  every  wile 
And  every  care  ; and  if  a smile 
Dawned  o’er  his  languid  brow,  to  her 
’Twas  a more  blessed  comforter 
Than  morning’s  mildest  promise  when 
It  smiles  on  hopeless,  sea- wrecked  men. 

Oft  as  she  watched  his  fitful  sleep, 

And  wished,  and  longed,  but  feared  to  weep, 
The  old  man  in  his  dreams  would  press 
Her  hand.  She  would  feel  his  caress, 

And  his  fond  and  murmured  blessing  hear 
With  bounding  heart  and  raptured  ear, 

And  every  nerve  upon  the  spring 
To  pay  his  love  with  answering  cling — 

But  fear  to  break  his  sleep  would  check 
Her  natural  instinct.  Round  his  neck 


46 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


Her  innocent  arms  she  then  would  steal. 
That  he  their  pressure  might  not  feel. 
And  to  his  wan  and  wasted  brow 
Her  lovely  head  in  reverence  bow, 

And  breathe  upon  it  her  meek  kiss 
Of  duteous  love  and  holy  bliss. 


Alas  ! in  earlier,  happier  hours, 

Hope  had  entwined  some  blushing  flowers 
F or  her  young  heart ; yes,  there  was  one 
She  loved,  and  could  have  doted%on 
Thro’  weal  and  woe.  F ain  would  he  take 
Her  heart  to  his  to  still  its  ache ; 

And  she  that  true  heart  would  have  given. 
If  sorrow  for  herself  had  riven 
Its  tender  core.  But  now  she  said 
She  would  watch  by  her  father’s  bed 
In  his  old  age,  and  have  no  thought 
But  for  his  good.  And  well  she  wrought 
Her  blessed  task,  until  at  last 
The  old  man’s  struggling  spirit  passed, 
And  her  young  cheek  was  worn  and  wan 
As  his  from  which  the  life  had  gone ! 


She  sought  him  soon.  Even  as  I spoke 
With  him,  beneath  his  spreading  oak, 

In  solitude,  that  holy  maid 

Came  on  to  meet  him.  She  was  arrayed 


THE  CELTS  PARADISE. 


4 


In  whitest  glory ; and  as  a beam 
Of  moonlight,  or  a morning  dream 
Dreamt  by  a saint,  she  came.  He  saw 
And  knew  her  coming.  Love  and  awe, 
Rapture  and  thankfulness,  were  in  his  look, 
And  up  he  rose  ; and  first  he  took 
Her  innocent  hand,  and  fixed  his  eye 
Ecstatic  on  her,  and  then  nigh 
And  nigher  to  his  old  heart  he  drew 
Its  only  darling ! — And  they  grew 
Together  in  a long  caress 
Of  wordless  love  and  happiness. 


I met  some  blissful  children  playing 
Thro’  the  fair  fields  ; and  they  were  straying 
Wherever  their  innocent  fancy  sent 
A wish  before  them.  But  I bent 
My  eye  on  one,  a glorious  boy, 

Who  in  this  life  had  been  the  joy 
Of  a widowed  mother — no  second  child 
She  had ; and  when  he  laughed  or  smiled, 
Her  eyes  in  happy  tears  would  swim, 

And  her  very  heart  laugh  out  with  him. 

They  walked  together : it  was  o’er 
A craggy,  steep,  and  sea-washed  shore. 

The  boy  ran  on  to  snatch  a flower 
From  the  rock’s  edge.  Alas ! no  power 


43 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


The  wretched  mother  had  to  say, 
Or  shriek  her  fear.  Away,  away — 
Down,  down  he  fell ! 


A night  and  day. 
Insensible  of  life,  she  lay, 

And  then  her  shuddering  soul  had  rest, 

And  here  she  came  among  the  blessed 
To  meet  her  loved  one.  As  she  came, 
Instinctively  she  named  his  name 
In  tenderest  accents.  The  boy  turned 
And  knew  his  mother ! His  cheek  burned 
With  rosier  brightness.  From  among 
His  wondering  playmates  up  he  sprung, 
And  round  her  neck  like  ivy  clung ! 

And  she,  in  the  embrace  she  gave, 

Seemed  as  for  ever  she  would  save 
Her  child  from  harm,  and  make  him  one 
With  her  own  essence.  “ My  son  ! my  son 
She  said,  “ live  here  upon  my  heart ! 

Now  we  shall  never,  never  part.” 

A father  walked  in  silent  ways 
With  his  two  children.  Full  ripe  days 
Of  manhood  he  had  known  ; and  they, 

A boy  and  girl,  died  in  the  May 
Of  earthly  life,  and  took  their  way 
To  him  in  Paradise.  As  they  walked. 

The  father  to  his  children  talked 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


49 


Of  their  good  mother,  wlio  on  earth 
Still  lived,  and  of  a coming  birth 
Which  would  give  them,  in  after  years, 
Another  playmate. 


In  her  tears 

On  earth  the  widow  dwelt.  She  knew, 
And  anguish  on  that  knowledge  grew, 
That  when  her  husband  died,  he  left 
An  unborn  orphan  with  her.  ’Heft 
In  him  of  all  that  could  give  life 
To  life  itself,  now  it  was  strife 
To  breathe  or  walk  the  earth.  The  child 
She  carried,  if  it  ever  smiled 
In  this  cold  world,  would  be  forlorn 
As  ever  was  infant-orphan  born  ; 

For  she  was  hopeless,  helpless,  low, 

And  she  only  wished  to  die,  and  go 
Where  he  had  gone,  whose  early  heart 
Was  hers  ; whose  life  in  every  part, 

Since  their  first  union,  had  been  spent 
In  chastened  love  and  meek  content 
For  her  and  with  her. 

Her  hour  came  on, 
And  she  was  made  mother  of  a son. 

Into  her  feeble  arms  she  took 
Her  feebler  infant.  One  fond  look, 

One  mother’s  kiss,  she  gave,  then  shook 


50 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


Convulsively,  and  died — and  deatli 
Came  on  her  babe  in  the  same  breath. 

I saw  the  happy,  happy  greeting 
Of  this  fond  family  at  their  meeting. 

With  his  children  hand  in  hand, 

By  a lone  lake’s  spreading  strand 
The  father  walked.  To  its  far  shore 
The  fair  girl  looked  and  pointed.  More 
She  could  not  say,  but  turned  and  ran 
To  meet  her  mother.  Then  began 
A scene  of  Paradise  ! The  boy 
Followed  his  sister,  in  such  joy 
As  youth  and  natural  love,  refined 
And  made  immortal,  to  his  mind 
Might  bring,  impulsive. 

With  freshened  brow, 
The  mother  moved  majestic  now ; 

And  her  young  infant  to  her  breast 
So  fondly,  yet  so  gently,  pressed ; 

Her  arms  crossed  o’er  it  like  a braid 
Of  white  flowers  on  a lambkin.  Led 
By  equal  love,  she  rushed  to  meet 
Her  happy  children  ; and  quick  feet 
Soon  find  each  other.  The  boy  clung 
First  to  his  mother’s  breast,  and  hung 
As  a garland  there  ; the  girl  had  ta’en, 

To  kiss  it  o’er  and  o’er  again, 


THE  CELTS  PARADISE. 


51 


The  infant  to  herself  ; and  when 
Her  brother  gave  his  welcome,  then 
He  took  her  lovely  load,  that  she 
Might  also,  at  full  liberty, 

Go  to  her  mother’s  arms.  Meanwhile 
The  father,  with  a fond,  fond  smile 
Shining  o’er  all  his  face,  came  on 
At  gentle  speed.  His  glance  hath  gone 
Before  him  with  its  welcome.  Her’s 
Hath  met  it.  Oh  the  thrill  that  stirs 
In  two  such  hearts  when  two  such  eyes 
Meet  once  again  in  Paradise ! 

She  shrieked  her  joy ; and  to  the  child 
Yet  clinging  to  her  gave  a wild 
And  hasty  kiss  ; and  being  free 
From  that  embrace,  all  eagerly 
Out  of  the  young  boy’s  arms  she  took 
Her  rosy  infant,  and  with  a look 
I felt  and  feel,  but  may  not  speak, 

Ban  forward  and  held  forth  its  cheek 
To  tempt  its  father’s  kiss ; and  then 
She  gave  it  to  the  boy  again. 

And  the  fond  wife  and  husband  pressed 
Each  other  to  each  other’s  breast 
In  such  chaste  rapture  as  is  known 
In  bowers  of  blessedness  alone ! 

On  his  hill  old  Comhal  dwelt. 

I saw  him,  and  in  awe  I knelt. 


52 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


He  raised  me  with  his  agdd  hand, 
And  asked  of  his  own  lovely  land, 
And  spoke  of  Finn  ; and  when  I told 
The  fields  of  fight  of  that  hero  bold, 
He  wept  in  joy  for  the  fame  he  won, 
And  often  blessed  his  only  son. 


And  there  he  dwelt  upon  his  hill, 

And  thought  of  his  deeds  of  danger  still, 

Or,  mounted  on  his  cloudy  steed, 

Hunted  the  stag  in  pleasant  speed. 

Sometimes  my  gentle  love  and  I 
Such  wild  unearthly  sport  would  try ; 

And  it  was  ecstacy  to  chase, 

That  brown  stag  in  his  mimic  race ! 

My  horse  was  of  the  darkened  air, 

My  dogs  were  made  of  the  breezes  there, 

And  the  bounding  stag  was  born  of  light 
Made  visible  like  the  rainbow  bright ! 

And  together  we  sat  in  her  house  of  flowers, 
And  laughed  at  the  careering  hours. 

Silence  was  round  us,  except  the  sigh 
Of  the  love-sick  breezes  floating  by, 

Or  the  small  sweet  song  of  the  beautiful  birds 
That,  like  us,  lived  on  loving.  Words 
We  wanted  not — our  hearts  and  eyes 
Shone  through  each  other — thoughts  and  sighs 


THE  CELT’S  PAKADISE. 


Were  mutual — and  for  our  nuptial  bed 
The  tenderest  flowers  tlieir  softness  shed, 
And  burned  in  blushes  ripe  and  red, 

Such  lovely  limbs  as  her’s  to  press 
In  all  their  modest  nakedness. 

Our’s  was  not  earthly  love.  To  sit 
A little  parted  and  opposite, 

And  gently  hold  each  other’s  hand, 

While  the  vassal-breeze  our  sighings  fanned 
Backward  and  forward — and  to  look 
Long  in  each  other’s  eyes,  that  took 
Our  thinkings  to  the  heart,  and  then 
Gave  them  out  in  light  again  ; 

Thus  to  be,  without  motion  or  stir, 

Each  the  other’s  idolater, 

Alone,  and  long,  and  wordless,  till 
Our  eyes  began  with  tears  to  fill, 

Our  frames  with  faintness,  and  our  sighs 
With  choaked  and  broken  ecstacies  ; 

And  we  at  last  sunk  gently — folded 
In  holy  fondness — thus  to  be, 

And  thus  to  feel ! — No  creature  moulded 
In  feelings  of  mere  mortality 
May  ever  think  or  ever  bring 
Such  bliss  to  his  imagining. 

Or  we  wandered  among  shining  streams, 
That,  like  the  bard’s  delicious  dreams, 


THE  CELT’S  PAEADISE. 


Ever  flow  thro’  beds  of  flowers, 

And  golden  vales,  and  blushing  bowers. 

And  all  in  playfulness  we  gaze 
With  sportive  and  well  feigned  amaze 
On  the  water — and  start  and  blush 
To  see  ourselves  there  ; and  we  rush 
And  plunge  together,  as  if  to  save 
Each  other  from  that  innocent  wave  ; 

Then  with  it  go  and  glide  along 
In  echoing  laughter,  mirth,  and  song. 

Or  alone  we  sat  by  the  foamy  fountain. 

In  the  solitude  of  the  silent  mountain, 

And  I plucked  a water-flower  from  its  flow, 

And  wreathed  it  with  leaves  on  the  mountain  that 
grow. 

And  when  on  her  head  it  was  a crown, 

At  her  feet  I knelt  me  down, 

And  called  her  the  lady  and  the  queen 
Of  that  wild  and  desolate  scene. 

Or  often — for  our  pure  nature  gave 
That  triumph  over  the  gloomy  grave — 

Often  our  spirits  winged  away, 

Disembodied  through  the  day, 

And  into  aught  they  wTould  possess, 

Breathed  themselves  in  gentleness; 

And  so  became  the  breeze  or  dew, 

Or  shrub  or  flower  of  any  hue. 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


Then  sometimes  my  love  was  the  tall  young  tree 
That  grows  on  the  mountain  lonelily, 

And  I was  the  wooing  eglantine, 

Around  her  slender  shape  to  twine, 

And  climb  till  I kissed  the  topmost  bough 
That  blossomed  on  her  fragrant  brow. 

Or  she  was  the  softly  opening  flower, 

Among  a thousand  in  her  bower, 

And  I was  the  bee  that  passed  all  by, 

Till  I saw  my  own  flower  blushing  nigh, 

And  then  in  her  bleeding  bosom  I lay, 

And  sipped  its  sweets,  and  flew  away. 


Or  still  she  was  that  rose,  and  I 
Came  down  as  a soft  wind  from  the  sky, 
And  sadly  I sighed  thro’  fields  and  bowers, 
Till  I found  at  last  my  flower  of  flowers, 
And  then  beneath  her  folds  I crept, 

And  there  in  perfumed  sweetness  slept. 

Or  a crystal  drop  was  on  her  leaf, 

And  I playfully  called  it  the  tear  of  grief, 
And  then  I was  the  loving  light 
To  kiss  away  its  essence  bright ! 

Or  she  kept  her  own  immortal  form, 

And  I came  as  the  breezes  wild  and  warm 
Of  which  she  breathed.  I was  a sigh 
Within  her  heart,  alternately 


56 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


Coming  and  going.  Or  as  slie  lay 
Eeclining,  I stole  in  amorous  play, 

And  fluttered  all  over  her  gentle  frame, 
As  if  to  fan  its  virgin  flame ! 


FOURTH  DUAN. 


And  yet  beneath  that  happy  sky 
Was  heard  one  ever-during  sigh  ; 

One  heart  of  sadness  there  was  known, 
One  voice  of  sorrow  wept  alone, 

And  o’er  that  Paradise  it  would  break, 
Like  a single  tear  on  a sunny  cheek. 

And  it  named  a name  m ah  its  weeping 
The  sighing  heart  was  sick  with  keeping ; 
It  named  a name  whose  very  sound, 

On  such  a lip,  in  such  holy  ground, 
Proved  all  enough  that  name  to  sever 
From  it  and  Paradise  for  ever. 

Minona ! The  sad  voice  was  thine, 

And  the  oft-whispered  name  was  mine. 

Silent  I sat  in  my  Spirit’s  bower  ; 

It  was  her  gentle  slumbering  hour  ; 

Her  head  was  cradled  on  my  breast, 

And  she  had  sighed  herself  to  rest  : 


58 


THE  CELT  S PARADISE. 


xlncl  all  around,  tlie  clustering  trees, 

Had  closed  on  love’s  long  mysteries, 

Making  a modest  twilight,  such 
As  love  itself  deemed  not  too  much. 

I heard  amongst  the  bushes  round 
A sobbing  sigh,  a moaning  sound — 

And  then  I saw  blue  weeping  eyes 
Gaze  on  me  in  my  mute  surprise — 

And  they  streamed  thro’  the  dark  bower’s  leafy  shroud 
Like  azure  thro’  a thunder  cloud. 


A feeble  recollection  came 
Of  looks  like  these  and  eyes  the  same — 
And  more  intense  my  gazings  grew ; 

But  the  young  eyes  faded  from  my  view, 
And  I only  heard  a whispering  song 
Its  mournful  music  thus  prolong. 


My  life  on  earth  was  a long,  long  sigh 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  of  hopes  and  fears  ; 
My  life  on  earth  was  a long,  long  shower 
Of  silent  tears,  of  silent  tears ; 

And  the  sudden  smile  that  sometimes  came 
O’er  all  my  woe,  o’er  all  my  woe, 

Was  the  tempest-flash  that  breaks  upon 
The  void  below,  the  void  below 


THE  CELT*S  PARADISE. 


59 


I could  not  live  on  earth  to  love, 

And  love  in  vain,  and  love  in  vain, 

And  I died  to  seek  some  other  land, 

To  soothe  my  pain,  to  soothe  my  pain. 
The  flowers  were  bright,  the  sky  was  fair, 
Morn  and  even,  morn  and  even, 

But  Ossian  was  on  earth  behind, 

And  it  was  not  heaven,  it  was  not  heaven. 


I often  wept  and  wished  him  dead, 

And  here  with  me,  and  here  with  me  ; 

He  might  forget  his  greatness  then, 

And  kinder  be,  and  kinder  be. 

He  came  at  last,  but  not  alone, 

My  wish  to  bless,  my  wish  to  bless ; 

Another  heart  has  made  for  him 
His  happiness,  his  happiness. 

I wish  I was  on  earth  again, 

In  rougher  skies,  in  rougher  skies  ; 

Their  tears  and  darkness  would  be  like 
My  agonies,  my  agonies. 

Oh ! it  is  comfortless  to  live 

In  lonely  sighs,  in  lonely  sighs — 

The  only  weeping  thing  that  walks 
Thro’  Paradise,  thro’  Paradise. 


60 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


The  sighing  song  has  ceased  around, 
So  gentle  in  its  whispering  sound, 

On  her  soft  ear  who  yet  is  sleeping, 

It  came  unheard  ; but  sobs  and  weeping 
Yet  linger  round  me,  and  I listened 
Till  the  trembling  tear  of  pity  glistened— 

“Who  art  thou,  mourner  all  alone? 
And  how  was  Ossian  loved  or  known  ?’’ 

“When  happier  eyes  have  holy  rest, 
And  every  heart  but  mine  is  blessed, 

Oh  meet  me  in  my  silent  vale, 

And  listen  to  my  weeping  tale. 

Ossian,  I hope  not  for  thy  kiss, — 

But,  give  thy  tear — it  would  be  bliss 
I never  had  to  see  thee  weep, 

And  hear  thee  wish  my  woes  asleep.” 

I met  her  in  her  silent  vale, 

And  listened  to  her  weeping  tale. 

I listened — we  were  there  alone — 

In  sorrow ; and  I looked  upon 
A face  and  form  whose  fresh,  fair  youth, 
So  full  of  tenderness  and  truth, 

Was  wet  with  tears  for  love  of  me, 

And  if  I smiled,  not  doom  to  be 
For  ever  fading.  And  she  spoke 
In  sighings  wild,  that,  fluttering,  broke 


THE  CELT*S  PARADISE. 


61 


From  the  heart’s  prison,  where  they  had  slept 
A long,  sad  slumber — and  she  wept 
Warm,  streaming  tears,  and  knew  not  whether 
In  love  or  grief,  or  both  together, 

Their  gushings  wandered.  Needs  there  more 
To  tell  a tale  oft  told  before  ? 

I braved  the  sea,  and  was  tempest-tossed  ; 

I looked,  and  listened,  and  was  lost ! 


Beauty ! — The  bard’s  eternal  theme — 
His  long,  long  sigh,  his  ceaseless  dream — 
His  hope,  his  virtue,  and  his  sin — 

The  breath  that  brings  him  life  within ! — 
To  bask  an  hour,  bright  beam ! in  thee, 
How  have  I darkened  my  destiny, 

When  it  was  shining  clear  and  calm, 

And  dared  to  be  the  thing  I am ! 

With  thee,  my  life  wove  all  its  flowers ; 
For  thee,  my  eyes  shed  all  their  showers ; 
For  thee,  I left  my  field  of  fame, 

And  risked  a dear  and  deathless  name  ; 
For  thee,  I gave  up  my  world  to  brave 
The  rushing  wind  and  roaring  wave  ; 

In  my  Paradise  I forgot 

Its  flowers  for  thee,  and  loved  them  not ; 

For  thee,  my  sin  was  unforgiven, 

And  I left  my  earth,  and  lost  my  heaven ! 


62 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


What  was  her  story  ? Hear  it  flow 
In  her  own  wild  words  of  woe. 


“Ossian,  thou  wert  my  soul’s  first  sigh, 
My  virgin  heart’s  idolatry! 

I saw  thee  in  thy  father’s  hall, 

The  fairest  there,  the  first  of  all — 

The  softest  voice  of  sounding  song, 

The  bravest  in  the  battle  throng, 

The  rosiest  cheek,  the  richest  smile 
That  lighted  up  our  own  green  isle. 

I saw  thee,  but  alone  I stood 
In  my  young  heart’s  widowhood ; 

I was  too  lowly  ever  to  be 
A beam  of  loveliness  to  thee  ; 

Yet,  like  the  flower,  I looked  upon 
My  own  loved  light  where’er  it  shone, 

Till  it  had  scorched  my  leaves  at  last, 

And  left  them  withering  in  the  blast! 

“ It  was  my  spring — my  budding  hour— 
And  in  thy  smile  my  heart  was  born, 

And  for  thy  sake  it  got  the  power 
Of  loving  in  that  maiden  morn. 

But  when  it  loved  too  long  and  lone, 

And  had  no  hope  of  love  from  thee, 

Still,  like  the  flower,  when  the  light  is  gone, 
It  shut  its  leaves,  and  would  not  be. 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


No  colder  smile,  no  moonshine  glow, 
Might  ever  waken  it  from  its  woe ! 


“I  was  the  most  forsaken  one 
That  walked  and  wept  beneath  the  sun ! 
The  virgin  stream,  the  first  fond  gush 
My  young  heart  gave  ; it  could  not  rush 
Forth  and  rejoice,  but  backward  crept, 
And  in  the  poor  heart’s  silence  slept — 
Sickening  in  its  own  repose, 

Like  dull  deep  water  that  never  flows. 
My  youth  was  joyless — and  my  fate, 

I thought  it  dark  and  desolate, 

As  if  thy  own  harp,  all  forsaken, 

Lay  silent  and  untouched  by  thee, 

For  no  other  hand  could  waken 
Its  neglected  harmony ! 


“ One  wish  I had.  It  was  to  take 
My  death  from  him  I loved  so  well. 

My  heart  was  breaking,  and  would  break, 
Ere  words  or  sighs  its  tale  might  tell ; 
But  rather  than  live  till  it  grew  dark 
In  its  own  helplessness,  I sought 
His  shining  sword,  to  strike  one  spark 
Of  feeling  thro’  it.  I recked  not 
If  pain  or  pleasure  ; and  in  the  flame 
Which  from  that  spark  all  quickly  came, 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 

I thought  it  would  be  bliss  to  burn, 

And  into  dull  cold  ashes  turn ! 

4<  I thought  from  him  who  bade  me  cease 
To  love,  such  recompense  were  due — 

I thought  that  he  who  killed  my  peace 
Should  kill  my  mind  and  memory  too  ! 

“ I had  my  wish ! The  battle  came — 

The  blazing  sun  flung  forth  its  flame — 

The  Fenii  went  to  quell  the  pride 
Of  Morni’s  host.  That  evening  tide 
I grasped  a spear — thy  foeman’s  crest 
My  flushed  and  throbbing  forehead  pressed, 
And  I felt  no  fear  ! A warrior  boy, 

So  young  thou  scarcely  couldst  destroy, 
Came  out  to  brave  thee  from  the  crowd ; 
Like  a faint  flash  from  a tempest-cloud, 

Thy  sword  descended  on  my  breast, 

And  I thought  I had  my  pleasant  rest. 

“But  here  on  this  bright  shore  I woke, 

To  weep  for  thee  and  love  thee  still ; 

Thy  sword  my  young  life’s  vision  broke, 
My  memory  it  could  not  kill ! 

I sate  alone  by  the  bubbling  stream, 

And  sang  a song  of  fondness  to  it — 

But  it  gushed  on  ; and  in  my  dream, 

Often  I would  wildly  woo  it ; 


THE  CELT  S PARADISE. 


65 


And  ever  as  it  stole  away, 

I wept  and  sighed,  ‘ False  Ossian  stay  !’ 
It  took  my  tear,  it  heard  me  sigh, 

And  smiled  in  scorn,  and  passed  me  by. 


“ Go,  Ossian,  go.  Thy  sleeping  flower 
Hath  wakened  in  her  happy  bower. 

My  tale  is  told.  But  art  thou  here, 
Breathing  the  same  soft  air  with  me  ; 
And  must  I weep  my  widowed  tear, 

And  never,  never  blissful  be? 


“Go,  Ossian,  go.  I wish  for  thee 
A life  of  love  eternally, 

Tlio’  thou  hast  been  to  me  the  blast 

That  chilled  my  dream  of  one  world’s  bliss, 
And  from  that  triumph  now  hath  passed 
To  wither  up  my  hopes  in  this. 

Oh  kill  me,  Ossian,  once  again, 

And  my  sleep  may  be  eternal  then  I” 


Her  soft  voice  sunk  in  broken  sighs, 

Half  rapture  and  half  agonies  ; 

Her  soft  blue  eyes  were  shut  in  tears, 

And  they  bathed  her  lips,  and  the  red  and  white 
Of  her  rich  cheek — and  thus  appears, 

Ere  the  sun  comes  to  lend  them  light, 


6G 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


A cluster  of  three  fairest  flowers, 

Lily,  violet,  and  rose, 

Sorrowing  in  the  dewy  showers 
The  night  has  wept  on  their  repose. 

And  one  white  arm  she  tossed  on  high, 
And  it  fell  against  a green  bank  nigh, 
Resting  there  unconsciously — 

And  over  it  her  head  was  drooping 
So  hopelessly!  And  she  was  stooping, 
Half-turned  from  my  enraptured  look 
That  now  in  all  its  glancings  took 
Abundant  love.  Oh  who  could  pause 
For  the  cold,  pitiful  applause 
Of  prudence  then!  Nay,  had  I stood 
On  the  bare  edge  of  a rock, 

And  saw  her  thus  beneath  a flood 
The  wildest  of  the  wild,  its  shock 
I could  despise,  and  brave,  and  mock — 
Plunging,-  tho’  to  my  early  grave, 

To  clasp  and  kiss  her  under  its  wave ! 

And  forward  I have  bent  and  sighed 
A sigh  that  her’s  have  multiplied — 

And  now  my  wooing  arms  are  stealing 
Round  her — and  now  I am  unveiling 
Her  young  cheek  from  the  wild  bright  hair 
That  strove  to  hide  its  blushings  fair, 

Like  a golden  sunburst  streaming  proud 
O’er  summer  evening’s  crimson  cloud — 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


67 


And  gentle  strife  I have  to  turn 
Her  lips  to  mine  that  madly  burn — 

And  half  an  effort  she  would  make 
My  fond  embraces  not  to  take. 

At  last  she  paused,  and  in  my  eyes 
Looked  up  in  questioning  surprise  ; 

And  chilling  doubts,  and  hopes  and  fears, 
And  wishings  wild,  and  smiles  and  tears, 

On  her  cheek,  and  in  her  eye, 

Mingled  and  fought  for  mastery. 

And  love  can  read  the  look  it  loves 
So  true,  the  reading  never  proves 
Doubtful  or  false  ; and  when  she  dwelt 
Long,  long  on  mine,  and  knew  and  felt 
My  heart  was  her’s,  that  happy  maid 
One  step  drew  back,  while  laughter  played 
Convulsive  on  her  lip,  then  flung 
Herself  around  me,  warm  and  young, 

And,  blushing  bright,  and  wildly  weeping, 
Crept  close  into  my  bosom’s  keeping. 

“ By  the  smooth  lake’s  silver  wave 
A bower  of  loveliness  I have — 

Over  the  mountain,  away  and  far, 

"Where  nothing  but  flowers  and  breezes  are. 
I wove  it  in  that  pathless  wild, 

To  weep  alone,  when  others  smiled — 

And  its  friendly  shade  my  secret  kept, 

And  no  laugh  was  round  me  when  I wept — • 


08 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


AncT  not  a leaf  its  wildness  wears 
But  has  been  nurtured  in  my  tears. 

“ Oh ! we  will  go  together  there, 

And  give  the  drooping  flowers  one  smile, 
And  they  will  look  more  fresh  and  fair, 
Than  any  in  this  blessed  isle! 

No  sound  or  voice  will  ever  come 
On  our  silence  to  intrude, 

And  thou  shalt  have  my  flowery  home 
And  faithful  heart  in  solitude  !” 


The  kiss  was  given ! — and  a wind 
Came  rushing  o’er  the  rocks  behind — 

Too  rude  to  be  the  breeze  that  fanned 
The  roses  of  that  happy  land  ; 

And  as  it  hurried  by,  the  air 
Darkened,  and  made  a shadow  there, 

"Which  feebly  and  confusedly  took 
My  Spirit’s  form  ; her  cloudy  look 
Glanced  anger  on  me,  and  she  passed 
Careering  on  the  wrathful  blast. 

Then  I was  in  a place  all  light 

And  silence.  Shapes  more  chastely  white 

Than  I had  seen  stood  in  a throng 

Entranced,  as  list’ning  to  some  song 

Of  holy  power,  which  they  alone 

Might  hear  and  worship.  And  there  was  one, 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


Tlironed  in  the  midst — a radiant  form 
Of  unveiled  glory,  but  not  warm 
And  scorching  like  the  sun’s  ; his  light, 
Tho’  it  dazzled  more,  was  silvery  bright 
And  awful ; and  he  was  the  king 
Of  Paradise — and  every  thing 
That  lives  or  breathes. 


A creature  knelt 

Weeping  beneath  his  smile,  which  dwelt 
Pleasantly  on  her.  Then  I felt 
The  fear  of  crime  ; for  well  I knew 
Her  to  whose  love  I was  untrue. 

She  motioned  at  me ; and  that  high 

And  awful  being  on  my  eye 

Plashed  frowning  terrors — a frown  ; but  aught 

Of  earthly  anger  it  had  not ; 

There  was  no  shade  in  it,  nor  less 
Of  glory  ; rather  it  did  compress 
Into  one  self-assuming  glance 
The  rays  of  his  whole  countenance  ; 

And  it  was  a frown  of  gathered  light, 

More  dreadful  than  the  glooms  of  night. 

Then  all  things  faded.  From  my  soul 
Its  pure  immortal  Spirit  stole, 

And  human  terrors  filled  my  brain, 

And,  curdling,  ran  thro’  every  vein  ; 


70 


TIIE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


And  either  the  land  receded  fast, 
And  shook  me  from  its  edge  at  last, 
Or  some  strong  invisible  arm 
Bound  me  in  its  chilly  charm, 

And,  unresisting,  I was  hurled 
Into  a cold  and  darkened  world. 


I stood  alone  in  thickened  gloom. 

I thought  it  might  be  one  spreading  tomb 
For  the  whole  earth,  and  that  around 
All  things  their  sepulchre  had  found 
Under  the  broad  vault  of  the  sky, 

Which  closed  on  them  too  suddenly 
While  yet  they  lived.  Feeble  and  far 
A blood-red,  half-distinguished  star 
Lent  sullen  light.  One  lurid  streak 
Fell  from  it  on  the  raven  cheek 
Of  utter  darkness  ; and  around, 

Terrific  forms  in  silence  frowned, 
Shapeless  and  nameless  ; and  to  mine  eye, 
Sometimes  they  rolled  off  cloudily, 
Wedding  themselves  with  gloom,  or  grew 
Gigantic  on  my  troubled  view, 

And  seemed  to  gather  round  me.  Few 
And  fearful  were  the  thoughts  that  came 
Upon  me  in  that  hour.  The  same 
Might  be  his  thinkings  who  hath  stood, 
Dizzy  amid  the  dashing  flood, 


THE  CELT'S  PAHADISE. 


71 


On  a poor  plank,  hopeless  to  save 
One  breathing  moment  from  that  wave  ; 

Or  it  was  as  if  within  the  womb, 

While  yet  in  uncreated  gloom, 

The  embryo-soul  could  faintly  feel 
A little  while  its  promised  zeal, 

Then,  darkening  in  its  own  essay, 

Melt  once  again  to  night  away. 

And  I looked  toward  that  far,  far  light, 
And  suddenly  upon  my  sight 
It  swelled  and  parted  ; and  as  a spark 
Shook  from  it,  but  now  quenched  and  dark, 
I saw  a dim  and  dusky  form, 

Like  any  our  fancy’s  dream  may  warm 
With  life,  come  forward  ; and  I thought, 
Far  off,  with  clouds  and  gloom  it  fought, 
And  traversed  hills  and  deserts,  set 
Even  in  remotest  distance  yet. 

But  quick  and  dark  it  came,  and  swelled 
To  giant  size  ; and  I beheld 
Its  cloudy  face.  On  me  it  bent 
A look  of  dark  and  dread  intent. 

I strove  to  flee  it ; but  my  blood 
Curdled,  and  there,  unnerved,  I stood, 
Helpless  and  hopeless.  Nearer  still 
The  giant  came.  Intent  to  kill, 

His  cloudy  arm  he  raised  on  high, 

And  again  I feebly  strove  to  fly, 


72 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


And  backward  fell.  Oh!  Then  I stepped 
On  a loose  rock,  that  trembling  kept 
Unfaithful  watch  o’er  a gulf  below 
Of  depth  unfathomed.  I slide  ! I go  ! 

But  in  my  fall  I madly  grasp 

And  cling  to  something! — and  I gasp, 

Suspended  there,  in  sick’ning  dread — 

Bum  below,  and  overhead 
Darkness — and  that  terrific  form 
My  heart’s  blood  shrinks  from. 

Breathings  warm 

Are  near  me.  Mighty  God!  I see 
That  maid  so  well  beloved  of  me. 

In  fainting  weakness,  clinging  there, 

Like  a white  mist,  hung  in  morning  air. 

O’er  the  hill’s  brow.  Her  only  stay 
Is  a loose  ledge  of  rock  and  clay, 

That  cannot  give  her  rest.  It  shakes!— 

It  yields ! — it  crumbles ! — ha ! it  breaks  ! 

Oh,  horror!  horror! — And  she  falls 
Thro’  depths  of  darkness ! — and  she  calls 
On  Ossian  still ! Her  frenzied  shriek 
Still  upward  thro’  that  gloom  will  break 
On  my  pierced  ear.  Again,  again 
It  thrills  my  heart  and  stabs  my  brain, 

And  I am  sick  with  fear  and  pain. 

I fail ! — I faint ! — I sink  ! — I fall ! 

Down,  down  thro’  darkness,  rocks  and  all ! 


THE  CELT?S  PARADISE. 


73 


This  was  my  punishment.  I woke, 

I know  not  how,  as  the  morning  broke, 
And  again  sat  under  the  wild-wood  tree, 
An  earthly  sun  once  more  to  see — 

And  thro’  the  leaves  his  beamings  glanced, 
And  on  the  green  turf  gayly  danced 
In  chequered  radiance,  quick  and  fair, 
Like  laughing  eyes  thro’  parted  hair. 


NOTES  TO  THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


NOTES  TO  THE  FIRST  DUAN. 


Page  8,  line  4. 

“ Lead  me  to  Slieve  Guttian’s  breast." 

Slieye  Gullian  is  a mountain  in  the  County  of  Armagh,  often  men* 
tioned  in  our  old  Irish  poems  as  the  scene  of  many  gallant  and  chiv- 
alrous exploits  of  Finn  Mac  Comhal,  his  sons  Ossian  and  Firgus,  and 
his  grandson  Osgur.  Its  scenery,  and  the  traditions  connected  with 
it,  render  this  celebrated  mountain  an  object  of  classic  interest  to  all 
lovers  of  national  legend  and  antiquity.  The  following  description  of 
it  (for  which  the  author  is  indebted  to  Miss  Brooks,  and  that  lady  to 
a correspondent)  may  not  be  amiss  in  this  place  : 

“I  am  a tenant  to  a lady  for  Slieve  Gullian,  and  often  visit  it  during 
the  summer  season  to  see  my  cattle.  In  July  last  (1788)  I went  over 
the  extent  of  this  mountain.  From  bottom  to  top  it  is  reckoned  two 
miles  ; on  the  summit  there  is  a large  heap  of  stones,  which  is  called 
Cailbach  Birnn’s  House,  in  which,  it  is  said,  Finn  Mac  Comhal  lies 
buried ; and  at  a hundred  paces  distant,  in  nearly  the  same  line,  there 
is  a circular  lake,  the  diameter  of  which  is  about  one  hundred  feet, 
and  is  about  twenty  deep ; on  one  side  of  this  lake  another  heap  of 
stones  is  piled  ; and  round  it,  at  all  seasons,  is  a beaten  path  leading  to 
the  old  lady’s  or  witch’s  house.  Lately  some  peasants,  expecting  to 
find  the  old  woman  (who,  however,  has  at  no  time  thought  proper  to 


76 


NOTES. 


appear),  threw  clown  her  house,  and  came  to  a large  cave,  about  twenty- 
feet  long,  ten  broad,  and  five  deep,  covered  with  flags,  in  which  either 
the  dame  or  money  was  expected,  but  only  a few  human  bones  were 
found.  From  the  summit  of  this  mountain,  if  the  day  happens  to  be 
fine,  you  command  an  extensive  view  of  Lough  Neagh,  and  all  the 
circumjacent  country.  ’ ’ 

The  lake  here  described  is  rendered  famous  on  account  of  an  old 
poetical  romance  which  details  an  interview  on  its  margin  between 
the  then  resident  enchantress  of  the  place  and  the  redoubtable  Finn 
Mac  Comhal,  which  terminated  all  but  fatally  for  (notwithstanding 
Messrs.  Blair  and  Macpherson)  that  flower  of  Irish  chivalry.  The 
enchantress  was  encountered  by  Finn  in  the  shape  of  a beautiful 
•woman,  bewailing  the  loss  of  her  favorite  ring,  which,  as  she  avowed, 
had  just  dropped  into  the  lake.  Half  urged  by  the  lady’s  solicitude, 
half  by  his  own  gallantry,  the  hero  dived  after  the  ring,  and  owing  to 
the  supernatural  influence  of  the  enchanted  waters,  became  imme- 
diately transformed  from  a hale,  blooming  chevalier  into  a wrinkled, 
tottering  old  man.  Finn’s  myrmidons,  however,  coming  soon  after 
in  pursuit  of  their  chief,  and  justly  suspecting  that  the  enchantress 
of  Slieve  Gullian  had  something  to  do  with  his  sudden  disappearance, 
obliged  her  by  threat  and  main  force  to  restore  him  to  his  original 
shape.  The  cave  which  has  been  described  by  Miss  Brooks'  corre- 
spondent, was  at  that  time  the  known  residence  of  the  enchantress, 
and  out  of  it  she  is  made  to  issue,  in  the  romance  alluded  to,  at  the 
command  of  Finn’s  companions  in  arms. 


Page  8,  line  10. 

u Than  those  thy  altar  hells  are  ringing.* ’ 

Large  bells  to  toll  for  church  service  are  not  here  meant,  but  the 
little  tinkling  bells,  at  all  times,  as  well  as  now,  made  use  of  in  Homan 
Catholic  churches  during  the  celebration  of  the  Mass.  They  are 
alluded  to  by  Ossian  in  many  old  poems  with  much  contempt. 


NOTES. 


77 


'‘Small  bells  (such,  we  mean,  as  were  appended  to  the  tunic  of  the 
Jewish  High  Priest,  and  afterwards  employed  by  the  Greeks  and  Pvo- 
mans  for  various  religious  purposes,  but  particularly  to  frighten  ghosts 
and  demons  from  their  temples)  were  undoubtedly  introduced  with 
Christianity  into  this  kingdom  (Ireland).  Their  use  among  the  Chris- 
tian clergy  is  supposed  to  be  coeval  with  their  religion  ; and  the  mis- 
sionaries who  were  sent  to  convert  the  Pagan  Irish  would  not  omit 
bringing  with  them  an  appendage  of  their  profession,  which  is  still 
thought  so  necessary.” — Walker  s Hist.  Mem.  of  the  Irish  Bards , p.  93. 


Page  8,  line  11. 

‘ ‘ And  thy  white-robed  Caldees  singing. ’ 1 
Culdus,  the  ancient  Irish  name  for  priest ; originally,  perhaps, 
synonymous  with  Druid. 

Page  12,  lines  16  and  17. 

“ And  for  this , must  prayers  be  read , 

And  beads  be  told , and  matins  said  T 1 

It  is  hoped  that  little  ^apology  will  be  necessary  for  the  wayward 
reasoning  of  the  old  bard  in  this  and  similar  passages.  Ossian,  as  the 
legend  goes,  was  found  by  St.  Patrick  in  a state  of  utter  Paganism. 
He  is  represented  in  many  old  rhymes,  as  well  as  in  the  present  in- 
stance, but  half  convinced  of,  half  converted  to,  Christianity;  and 
this  may  extenuate  the  crime  of  his  indulging,  now  and  then,  in  a 
preference  for  the  convenient  heaven  of  his  own  wild  mythology. 
But  in  Miss  Brooks’  translation  of  “ Reliques  of  Irish  Poetry,”  he  is 
made  to  speak  more  positive  impiety  than  one  would  be  induced  to 
imitate  or  hazard  for  him  at  present — thus, 

“ Where  was  thy  God  in  that  sad  day, 

When  o’er  Sioni’s  wave, 

Two  heroes  ploughed  the  watery  way 
Their  beauteous  prize  to  save  ? 


78 


NOTES. 


“Or  on  that  day  when  Jailk’s  proud  might 
Invaded  Erin’s  coast — 

Where  was  thy  Godhead  in  that  fight, 

And  where  thy  empty  boast?" 

Perhaps  no  printed  poem  or  legend  extant  affords  hope  of  the 
emancipation  of  the  old  poet  from  these  dangerous  prejudices.  A 
tradition,  however,  which  I recollect  to  have  heard  in  early  childhood, 
would  appear  to  give  him  the  credit  and  advantage  of  a full  and  per- 
fect conversion.  According  to  it,  Ossian,  at  some  period  or  other, 
was  absolutely  baptized  by  St.  Patrick.  During  the  ceremony,  the 
saint,  to  prove  his  penitent’s  humility  and  self-command,  transfixed 
his  foot  to  the  ground  by  striking  the  spike  of  his  crosier  through  it. 
The  tradition  adds — This  rather  severe  trial  of  his  Christian  docility 
w'as  not  met  even  by  an  expostulation  on  the  part  of  the  reformed 
Free-thinker. 

It  may  be  proper  to  remark  that  the  same  circumstance  is  told  as 
an  historical  fact  by  Keating,  O’Halloran,  and  others,  of  St.  Patrick, 
and  the  first  Irish  king  who  embraced  Christianity. 


Page  14,  lines  17  and  18. 

“ Give  me  the  old  Clarseech  I hung 
On  my  loved  tree” 

Clarseech , the  old  Irish  name  for  harp.  Perhaps  this  title  is  not 
meant  to  designate  the  national  harp,  as  used  by  the  bards  in  princely 
halls,  or  on  important  occasions.  It  would  rather  seem  to  apply  to  a 
modification  of  the  latter,  corresponding,  in  point  of  lightness  and 
partiality,  to  the  Grecian  lyre.  The  small  one  exhibited  in  the  mu- 
seum of  Trinity  College  is  that  used  by  Brian  Borseme,  and  certainly 
gives  no  adequate  idea  of  a musical  instrument  so  celebrated  as  the 
Irish  harp  has  been  for  the  compass  and  power  of  its  melody;  and 
probably  a distinction  either  has  been  or  could  be  made  between  the 
Clarseech,  with  which  the  interesting  relic  just  mentioned  would 


NOTES. 


79 


appear  to  class,  and  a larger  and  more  important  instrument,  all 
authentic  models  of  which  are,  at  this  remote  day,  extinct. 


Page  15,  line  1. 

u All  day  we  chased  the  dark-brown  deer.” 

These  hunting-matches  continued  several  days,  and  in  some  seasons 
several  months.  At  night  they  encamped  in  woods,  and  reposed  in 
booths  covered  with  the  skins  of  animals  they  hunted  down. 

The  chase  was  to  them  (the  ancient  Irish)  “a  sort  of  military 
school,  which  rendered  toil  easy,  and  annexed  a pleasure  to  the 
rudest  fatigue.  It  gave  them  great  muscular  strength,  and  great  agility 
and  firmness  against  the  severity  of  the  most  rigorous  seasons.  It 
besides  taught  them  vigilance,  skill  in  archery,  and  great  patience 
under  long  abstinence  from  food.  They  came  out  of  the  forest  expert 
soldiers ; and  no  nation  could  excel  them  in  rapid  marches,  quick  retreats , 
and  sudden  sallies.” — O'Connor  s Dissertations , p.  77,  101. 

This  quotation  is  made,  principally,  to  support  the  admission  of  a 
liberty  into  which  the  author  makes  little  doubt  he  has  fallen — namely, 
that  of  giving  to  Ossian  the  accompaniment  of  a horse  on  the  partic- 
ular occasion  to  which  he  here  alludes.  It  is  evident  that  O’Connor 
means  to  describe  a chase  pursued  on  foot,  as  the  words  marked  in 
italics  in  the  quotation  will  sufficiently  show  ; and  he  must  further  be 
understood  to  speak  of  the  very  time  in  which  Ossian  is,  according  to 
the  poem,  supposed  to  have  lived.  But  the  impropriety  of  making 
Ossian  a cavalier  will  more  strongly  appear  when  we  come  to  observe 
on  the  national  military  body  of  which  our  Irish  authorities  would 
make  him  a distinguished  member. 

Page  15,  line  3. 

“ We  broke  the  dew  on  Allen's  breast .” 

A hill  in  the  County  of  Kildare,  whose  identity  cannot  now  be  as- 
certained, was  at  the  real  or  imaginary  era  to  which  we  could  refer, 


80 


NOTES. 


called  11  the  Hill  of  Allen,”  from  the  palace  of  Allen  built  on  its  top, 
much  celebrated  as  the  seat  of  Finn  Mac  Comhal.  Of  this,  more  in 
another  place. 


Page  18,  line  9. 

‘ * And  in  my  helmet  water  dear.  ’ ' 

It  would  have  been  taking  rather  a hazardous  liberty  to  have 
given  Ossian  any  body-armor  except  the  helmet.  In  describing  Fitz- 
Stephen’s  first  disastrous  attack  on  the  town  of  Wexford  in  1169, 
Gerald  Barry,  Champion,  Stanihurst,  Zeanmer,  and  later  writers,  affirm 
that  among  other  appalling  accompaniments,  the  shining  armor  of 
the  English  knights  was  a terrifying  spectacle  to  the  natives.  Taking 
leave  to  form  our  own  opinion  as  to  the  passions  excited  on  the  occa- 
sion, we  must  infer  from  these  authorities  that  the  native  Irish  did 
not  at  that  time  wear  armor.  Our  own  writers  almost  concur  in  this 
opinion. 

4 ‘ It  should  seem  that  body-armor  of  any  kind  was  unknown  to  the 
Irish  previous  to  the  tenth  century,  as  we  find  King  Murkertach,  in 
that  century,  obtaining  the  ascititious  name  of  Muirkentach  na  goechall 
croceann  for  so  obvious  an  invention  as  that  of  the  leathern  jacket. 
Yet  coats  of  mail  are  mentioned  in  the  Brehon  Laws,  and  the  word 
mail  is  supposed  to  be  derived  from  mala  in  Irish.  Though  the  poets 
of  the  Middle  Ages  describe  the  heroes  of  Ossian  as  shining  in  polished 
steel,  no  relic  of  that  kind  of  armor  has  escaped  the  wreck  of  time  in 
Ireland  ; nor  has  there  even  a specimen  of  the  brass  armor,  in  which, 
it  is  said,  the  Danes  so  often  met  the  Irish,  fallen  under  my  observa- 
tion. Smith,  indeed,  tells  us  that  corselets  of  pure  gold  were  dis- 
covered on  the  lands  of  Clonties,  in  the  County  of  Kerry ; but  these 
might  have  been  left  there  by  the  Spaniards,  who  had  a fortification 
called  Fort  del  Ore  adjoining  those  lands. 

“That  the  bodies  of  Irishmen  should  have  been  totally  defenceless 
with  respect  to  armor  during  their  several  bloody  contests  with  the 
Danes,  I am  neither  prepared  to  admit  nor  deny  ; but  I confess  myself 


NOTES. 


81 


inclined  to  think  that  their  inflexible  attachment  to  their  civil  dress 
would  not  yield  to  the  fashion  of  the  martial  garb  of  their  enemies, 
though  it  gave  those  people  an  evident  advantage  over  them  in  the 
field  of  battle.  It  is,  however,  certain  that  the  English  did  not  find 
them  cased  in  armor.” — Walker  s Hist.  Essay  on  the  Dress  and  Armor  of 
the  Irish , p.  106.  * 

But  that  helmets,  at  least,  were  worn  in  Ireland  previous  to  the 
tenth  century,  is  certain  from  some  Irish  coins  found  (according  to 
Simon’s  Essay  on  Irish  Coins  and  Trans,  of  the  K.  S.  Acad.)  in  the 
Queen’s  County,  in  the  year  1786. 


Page  20,  line  15. 

11 A Sidhee  spirit .” 

1 1 Saint  Patrick  happened  to  be  chanting  his  matins  with  three  of 
his  bishops,  and  a great  number  of  his  clergy,  very  early  on  a morn- 
ing, at  a fountain  called  Clabach,  to  the  east  of  Cruachan,  when  the 
two  princesses,  daughters  of  Laogar,  the  then  King  of  Ireland,  at  sun- 
rise, came  forth  to  wash  their  faces  and  view  themselves  in  that  foun- 
tain, as  in  a mirror. 

“When  the  princesses  saw  these  venerable  gentlemen,  clothed  in 
white  surplices,  and  holding  hooks  in  their  hands,  astonished  at  their 
unusual  dress  and  attitudes,  they  looked  upon  them  to  be  the  people 
Sidhee.  The  Irish  call  these  Sidhee  aerial  spirits  or  phantoms,  because 
they  are  seen  to  come  out  of  pleasant  hills,  where  the  common  people 
imagine  they  reside  ; which  fictitious  habitations  are  called  by  us 
Sidhee  or  Siodha. 

“From  whence  we  may  infer  that  the  divinities  of  the  Irish  were 
local  ones — that  is,  residing  in  mountains,  plains,  and  such  places.” — 
O’  Flaherty’ s Ogygia. 

It  will  be  seen  that  one  liberty  has  been  taken  with  these  continent 
divinities.  O’ Flaherty  would  appear  to  limit  their  residence  to  the 


82 


NOTES. 


hills  and  plains  of  this  earth  : in  the  foregoing  poem  they  are  assumed 
to  have  lived  and  breathed  in  a world  and  atmosphere  peculiar  to 
themselves. 


NOTES  TO  THE  SECOND  DEAN. 


Page  22,  line  17. 

44 Allen's  stately  hall ” 

The  palace  of  Almhain,  Almhuin,  Alwin,  or  Allen,  alluded  to  in  a 
former  note  as  built  on  the  top  of  the  Hill  of  Allen,  in  the  County  of 
Kildare,  and  much  celebrated  as  the  principal  residence  of  Finn  Mac 
Comhal.  According  to  Keating  (p.  271),  Moona,  or  Muirne  (the  be- 
loved maid  of  the  fascinating  wiles),  was  the  mother  of  Finn,  and  he 
possessed  this  palace  in  her  right. 

In  the  rhapsody  of  Ossian,  which  gives  an  account  of  the  seven 
redoubtable  battalions  of  the  Finii,  there  is  a passage  descriptive  of 
the  palace  of  Allen,  its  economy,  feasts,  &c. , in  English,  as  follows  : 

‘ 4 1 have  seen  when  I banqueted  in  the  halls  of  Finn,  at  every 
banquet  a thousand  cups,  bound  with  wreaths  of  wrought  gold. 

“ There  were  twelve  palaces,  filled  with  the  troops  of  the  son  of  the 
daughter  of  Tagus,  at  Almhain,  of  the  noble  Finii. 

4 4 Twelve  constant  fires  flamed  in  each  princely  house  : and  each 
fire  was  surrounded  by  an  hundred  of  the  mighty  Finii.’ * 

'This  description  reminds  us  of  the  good  old  times  in  4 4 Branksome 
Hall.” 


Page  31,  line  1 and  2. 

44  The  stars  were  up,  and , weak  and  small, 

They  twinkled  round  a darken'd  hall." 

In  partial  excuse  for  Ossian’ s unscientific  description  of  this  ap- 
pearance of  the  earth  among  the  other  heavenly  bodies,  it  may  be 


NOTES. 


83 


considered  that  the  flood  of  ages  and  revolutions  had  swept  away  all 
trace  of  the  astronomical  acquirement  which  his  Phoenician  and  Egyp- 
tian ancestors,  Heber  and  Heremon,  might  be  supposed  to  have  trans- 
planted into  Ireland  at  (according  to  our  devoted  lovers  of  extreme 
antiquity)  their  first  descent  on  the  country,  a.  m.  2240. 


NOTES  TO  THE  THIRD  DUAN. 


Page  34,  line  10. 

‘ 1 Away , and  leave  me  to  my  wrath.  ’ ’ 

In  many  of  the  old  Irish  poems  before  alluded  to,  misunderstand 
ings  and  bickerings  often  occur  between  Ossian  and  St.  Patrick,  of 
which  this  passage  would  presume  to  be  no  more  then  a very  humble 
imitation.  One  or  two  specimens  from  Miss  Brooks’  devoted  trans- 
lation will  give  a pretty  fair  idea  of  the  whole. 

“ Patrick. 

4 ‘Drop  we  our  speech  on  either  side, 

Thou  bald  and  senseless  fool ! 

In  torments  all  thy  race  abide, 

While  God  in  heaven  shall  rule.” 
ft  ft  e o ft  ft  ft 

“ Ossian. 

“Now,  Patrick  of  the  scanty  store 
And  meagre-making  face ! 

Say,  didst  thou  ever  meet  before 
This  memorable  chase?” 


84 


NOTES. 


Page  34,  line  17. 

“ Oh,  Osgur  ! my  heart's  darling  son.” 

Scotch  and  Irish  hards  and  antiquarians  agree  tolerably  well  in 
their  pedigree  of  Ossian’ s family  : the  former  only  differing  from  the 
latter  by  going  a little  further  back.  Thus  : Tagus  had  a daughter 
who  was  married  and  had  Comhal,  who  was  married  (to  Moona)  and 
had  Finn,  who  was  married  and  had  Ossian  and  Fergus  ; Ossian  had 
Osgur  : Fergus  appears  to  have  died  unmarried.  Fergus  is  much 
famed  for  gentleness  of  character  in  all  our  old  rhymes,  and  esteemed 
a poet  scarcely  inferior  to  Ossian.  He  was,  in  fact,  the  official  bard  of 
his  father,  Finn  Mac  Comhal,  and  supplied  the  place  of  the  “spirit- 
stirring  ’ ’ trumpet,  by  rushing  among  his  ranks  during  the  deathful 
conflict,  and  exciting  the  courage  and  energies  of  the  heroes  by  the 
delivering  of  extemporaneous  odes.  Among  the  originals  given  by 
Miss  Brooks  of  her  1 1 Beliques,  ’ ’ there  are  some  pieces  attributed  to 
Fergus,  which,  if  we  may  be  allowed  to  judge  of  them  through  the 
medium  of  that  lady’s  translation,  appear  to  possess  many  fine  and 
daring  passages. 

Again : we  meet  in  our  national  poems  almost  all  the  names,  in- 
dependent of  Ossian’ s family,  to  which  Mr.  Macpherson  has  familiar- 
ized the  literary  world.  We  find  Cuchullin,  “mighty  chief,”  Cairbre, 
Morni  and  his  son  Gall  or  Gaul  : the  latter  regarded  as  a warrior  of 
formidable  powers,  not  yielding  even  to  Finn  in  the  terrors  of  his 
arm. 


Page  84,  line  22. 

1 1 The  last  of  all  the  Fenian  race.  ’ ’ 

“The  Irish  in  general  were  called  Fenians  or  Phenians,  from  theit 
great  ancestor  Phinius-Tarsa,  or  perhaps  in  allusion  to  their  Phoeni- 
cian descent.  But  the  Leinster  legions  proudly  arrogated  that  name 
entirely  to  themselves,  and  called  their  celebrated  body  exclusively 
Fenii , or  Fiana  Eireann .” — Miss  Brooks,  p.  158. 


NOTES. 


85 


Of  this  body  Finn  Mac  Comhal  was  commander- in- chief ; and  hence 
his  appellation  of  King  of  the  Fenii.  ^ 

“ The  constant  number  of  this  standing  army  in  times  of  peace,  and 
when  there  was  no  disturbances  at  home,  nor  any  want  of  their  assist- 
ance to  their  allies  abroad,  were  nine  thousand  men,  divided  equally 
into  three  battalions.  But  in  case  of  any  apprehension  of  a conspiracy, 
or  a rebellion  against  the  monarch,  or  if  there  was  any  necessity  of 
transporting  a body  of  troops  to  Scotland,  in  order  to  defend  their 
allies,  the  Dalriades,  it  was  in  the  power  of  Finn  to  increase  his  forces 
to  seven  battalions  of  three  thousand  each.  Every  battalion  was  com- 
manded by  a colonel ; every  hundred  men  by  a captain ; an  officer  in 
the  nature  of  a lieutenant  was  set  over  every  fifty ; and  a serjeant, 
resembling  the  Decurio  of  the  Romans,  was  at  the  head  of  every  five- 
and-twenty.  When  they  were  drawn  out  for  action,  every  hundred 
men  were  distributed  into  ten  files,  with  ten  (of  course)  in  each  ; and 
the  leader  of  the  file  gave  the  word  to  the  other  nine.  As  it  was 
thought  a great  honor  to  belong  to  this  invincible  body  of  troops, 
their  general  was  very  strict  in  insisting  on  the  qualifications  neces- 
sary for  admission  into  it. 

‘ ‘ The  parents  (or  near  relations)  of  every  candidate  for  the  militia 
were  to  give  security  that  they  would  not  attempt  to  revenge  his 
death,  but  leave  it  to  his  fellow- soldiers  to  do  him  justice.  He  must 
have  a poetical  genius,  and  be  well  acquainted  with  the  twelve  books 
of  poetry.  He  was  to  stand  at  the  distance  of  nine  ridges  of  land, 
with  only  a stick  and  a target,  and  nine  soldiers  were  to  throw  their 
javelins  at  him  at  once,  from  which  he  was  to  defend  himself  unhurt, 
or  be  rejected.  He  was  to  run  through  a wood  with  his  hair  plaited, 
pursued  by  a company  of  the  militia,  the  breadth  of  a tree  only  being 
allowed  between  them  at  setting  out,  without  being  overtaken,  or  his 
hair  falling  loose  about  him.  He  was  to  leap  over  a tree  as  high  as 
his  forehead,  and  easily  stoop  under  another  that  was  as  low  as  his 
knee.  These  qualifications  being  proved,  he  was  then  to  take  an  oath 
of  allegiance  to  the  king,  and  of  fidelity  to  Finn,  his  commander-in- 
chief. 


86 


NOTES. 


“ The  reader  will  judge  of  the  propriety  of  most  of  these  qualifica- 
tions ; hut  this  was  not  everything  that  was  required.  Every  soldier, 
before  he  was  enrolled,  was  obliged  to  subscribe  to  the  following 
articles  : That  if  ever  he  was  disposed  to  marry,  he  would  not  conform, 
to  the  mercenary  custom  of  requiring  a portion  with  his  wife  ; but, 
without  regard  to  her  fortune,  he  would  choose  a woman  for  her  virtue 
and  courteous  manners.  That  he  would  not  offer  violence  to  any 
woman.  That  he  would  be  charitable  to  the  poor,  as  far  as  his  abili- 
ties would  permit.  And  that  he  would  not  turn  his  back  nor  refuse 
to  fight  with  ten  men  of  any  other  nation. 

‘ ‘ In  the  times  of  peace  they  were  required  to  defend  the  inhabitants 
against  the  attempts  of  thieves  or  robbers  ; to  quell  riots  or  insurrec-, 
tions ; to  levy  fines,  and  secure  estates  that  were  confiscated  to  the 
crown ; in  short,  to  suppress  all  seditious  and  traitorous  practices  in 
the  beginning,  and  to  appear  under  arms  when  any  breach  of  faith 
required  it.  They  had  no  subsistence-money  from  the  monarchs,  but 
during  the  winter  half  year,  when  they  were  billetted  on  the  country, 
and  dispersed  in  different  quarters.  During  the  other  half  of  the  year 
they  were  encamped  about  the  fields,  and  obliged  to  fish  and  hunt  for 
their  support.  This  was  not  only  a great  ease  to  the  monarch  and  his 
subjects,  but  it  inured  the  troops  to  fatigue,  preserved  them  in  health 
and  vigor,  and  accustomed  them  to  lie  abroad  in  the  field  ; and  in  a 
country  which  abounded  so  much  with  venison,  fish,  and  fowl,  as 
Ireland  did,  it  was  no  other  hardship  than  what  was  proper  to  the  life 
of  soldiers,  to  be  obliged  to  draw  their  subsistence  in  the  summer  sea- 
son from  those  articles. 

“ They  made  but  one  meal  in  the  four-and-twenty  hours,  -which  was 
always  in  the  evening  ; and  besides  the  common  method  of  roasting 
their  meat  before  the  fire,  they  had  another  very  remarkable.  The 
places  which  they  chose  to  encamp  in  were  always  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  water,  when  great  fires  were  made  in  order  to  heat  some  large 
stones  for  soddening  their  meat.  Here  large  pits  were  dug,  into  which 
they  threw  a layer  of  stones  when  they  were  hot,  and  then  a layer  of 
flesh,  till  the  pit  was  full,  or  their  quantity  of  meat  was  finished. 


NOTES. 


87 


1 ‘If  tlieir  exercise  led  them,  as  it  often  did,  to  too  great  a distance 
to  return  to  their  camp,  as  soon  as  dinner  was  ended,  they  erected 
little  temporary  tents  or  booths,  in  which  their  beds  were  laid  out  and 
constructed  with  great  exactness.  Next  the  ground  were  placed  the 
small  branches  of  trees,  upon  which  was  strewed  a large  quantity  of 
moss,  and  over  all  were  laid  bundles  of  rushes,  which  made  a very 
commodious  lodging,  and  which,  in  the  old  manuscripts,  are  called 
‘the  three  beds  of  the  Irish  Militia.’  The  marks  of  their  fires  con- 
tinue deep  in  the  earth,  in  many  parts  of  the  island,  to  this  day ; and 
when  the  husbandman  turns  up  the  black  burnt  clay  with  his  plough, 
he  immediately  knows  the  occasion  of  it ; and  even  now  that  soil  is 
called  by  the  name  of  ‘Fullacht  Finn.’  The  Militia  were  as  much 
under  discipline  when  encamped  thus  in  the  summer  as  when  they 
were  at  quarters,  and  they  were  at  stated  times  obliged  to  perform 
their  military  exercise.  Besides  these  regulations  for  the  army,  the 
celebrated  Finn,  who  was  as  great  a philosopher  as  a general,  drew  up 
several  axioms  of  jurisprudence,  which  were  incorporated  into  the 
celestial  judgments  of  the  state.” — Dr.  Warner's  History  of  Ireland , 
p.  289. 

From  Miss  Brooks’  translation  of  parts  of  the  “Rhapsody  of  Ossian,” 
before  alluded  to,  it  may  not  be  uninteresting  to  subjoin  here  a de- 
scription of  the  character  of  the  Irish  Fingall. 

“Finn  of  the  large  and  liberal  soul  of  bounty  : exceeding  all  his 
countrymen  in  the  prowess  and  accomplishments  of  a warrior.  King 
of  mild  majesty  and  numerous  bards. 

“The  ever-open  house  of  kindness  was  his  heart:  the  seat  of 
undaunted  courage  ; great  was  the  chief  of  the  mighty  Finii ! — Finn 
of  the  perfect  soul,  the  consummate  wisdom  ; whose  knowledge  pene- 
trated events,  and  pierced  through  the  veil  of  futurity.  Finn  of  the 
splendid  and  ever-during  glories. 

“ Bright  were  his  blue  rolling  eyes,  and  his  hair  like  flowing  gold  ! 
Lovely  were  the  charms  of  his  unaltered  beauty,  and  his  cheeks  like 
the  glowing  rose. 


88 


NOTES. 


“Each  female  heart  overflowed  with  affection  for  the  hero  whose 
bosom  was  like  the  whiteness  of  the  chalky  cliff ; for  the  mild  son  of 
Morni  : Finn,  the  king  of  the  glittering  blades  of  war.” 


Page  31,  lines  24  and  23. 

. . . . ‘ ‘ Were  there  one 

Of  all  my  heroes  that  are  gone.” 

Invincible  as  the  prowess  of  the  Finii  was  deemed,  they  met  with 
a signal  defeat  at  the  battle  of  Gabhra,  fought  between  them  and 
Gairbre,  the  monarch  of  Ireland.  Finn  and  his  grandson  Osgur,  with 
their  most  famous  chiefs,  fell  on  the  field  : and  Ossian5-  seems  to  have 
been  the  only  member  of  his  family  left  to  mourn  over  their  extinc- 
tion, which  he  often  does,  or  is  made  to  do,  in  “old  Irish  composi- 
tions’ ’ attributed  to  him. 

The  annals  of  Innispaclm,  and  other  ancient  records  and  poems,  in- 
form us  that  the  battle  of  Gabhra  was  fought  in  the  year  of  our  Lord 
296. f The  cause  of  this  battle  (as  well  as  I can  collect  from  various 
accounts)  was  pretty  nearly  as  follows. 

‘ ‘ The  celebrated  body  of  the  Finii  had  grown  to  a formidable  de- 
gree of.  power.  Conscious  of  the  defence  they  afforded  their  country, 
and  the  glory  they  reflected  on  it,  they  became  overbearing  and  inso- 
lent, esteeming  too  highly  of  their  merits,  and  too  meanly  of  their  re- 
wards : and  this  the  more  as  they  perceived  the  monarch  disposed  to 
slight  their  services  and  envy  their  fame. 

“It  would  be  tedious  here  to  relate  the  various  causes  assigned 
by  different  writers  for  the  discontents  which  occasioned  this  battle. 
Historians,  in  general,  lay  the  blame  upon  the  Finii : and  the  poets, 
taking  part  with  their  favorite  heroes,  cast  the  whole  odium  upon 

* According  to  the  book  of  Hoath. 

t The  author  is  aware  of  the  gross  anachronism  committed  by  making  St. 
Patrick,  who  came  to  Ireland  toward  the  end  of  the  fourth  century,  a cotempo- 
rary with  Ossian,  who  fought  in  the  battle  of  Gabhra  in  296. 


NOTES. 


89 


Cairbre,  the  monarch  of  Ireland.  The  fault  most  likely  was  mutual, 
and  both  parties  suffered  for  it.  Cairbre  himself  was  killed  in  the 
action,  and  a dreadful  slaughter  ensued  among  his  troops  : but  those 
of  the  Finii  were  almost  totally  destroyed,  for,  relying  upon  that  valor 
which  they  fondly  deemed  invincible,  they  rushed  into  the  field 
against  odds  that  madmen  alone  would  have  encountered.” — Miss 
Brooks , pp.  146-7. 


Page  54,  lines  17  and  18. 

1 1 And  called  her  the  lady  and  the  queen 
Of  that  wild  and  desolate  scene.  ’ * 

When  the  above  lines  were  written,  the  author  had  never  seen  Mr. 
Barry  Cornwall’s  beautiful  poem,  “The  Sicilian  Story,”  to  the  follow- 
ing passage  of  which  the  quotation  may  be  supposed  to  have  a gen- 
eral resemblance. 

‘ ‘ He  bound 

The  fillets  like  a coronet  around 

Her  brows,  and  bade  her  smile  and  be  a queen/ 


90 


NOTES. 


NOTES  TO  THE  FOURTH  DUAN. 


Page  64,  line  8. 
‘ 1 The  blazing  sun  . 


The  standard  of  the  Finii. 


Page  64,  line  10. 

* 1 Morni  s host * ’ 


Much  contention  existed  at  one  period  between  the  Finii  and  the 
tribe  of  Morni.  Cumhal  or  Comhal  was  killed  in  a battle  fought  be- 
tween them;  a subsequent  reconciliation,  however,  took  place,  and 
ever  after  the  tiibe  of  Morni  was  subservient  to  the  Finii,  both  parties 
living  in  the  utmost  concord,  and  the  former  experiencing  much 
kindness  and  attention  from  Finn  Mac  Comhal. 


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